


Stiles's Mouth Writes Checks His Body Can't Cash

by FeelingFredly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Not Known (Teen Wolf), Anal Sex, BDSM, Baby Erica, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Blood Kink, Brat Erica, Brat Stiles Stilinski, Canon Het Relationship, Daddy Kink, Dom Derek Hale, Exhibitionism, F/M, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Het and Slash, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, M/M, Marking, Not Canon Compliant, Scent Kink, Sexual Abuse, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Voyeurism, daddy Boyd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelingFredly/pseuds/FeelingFredly
Summary: Working for the FBI put him in a lot of weird positions, but this one was turning out to be one of the weirdest. It was fine, though. Stiles just had to keep his mouth shut, his head down, and learn the ropes--ha! ropes!--of being a Dom.  Too bad Derek Hale seemed to bring out the brat in him, instead.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 33
Kudos: 523
Collections: Teen wolf





	1. Laying Down the Law

**Author's Note:**

> We're starting out slow but will earn the rating in later chapters. Thanks for tagging along for the ride!

It looked like an interrogation room at Quantico with better chairs, and Derek Hale, professional Dom and owner of the BDSM club The Den, was standing on the other side of the table, suit perfectly pressed with nary a button askew, clearly expecting to play the role of interviewing Agent. This was going to be fun.

Not.

“So,” Stiles slouched in his chair, long legs sprawled in front of him. It had already been a long day, and he wasn’t in the mood for more of this Master/slave bullshit, but work was work and he’d get through it. He always did. If he happened to ignore dungeon protocol, well Hale wasn’t his Dom. “Why dids’t thou summon me, my Master?”

The attitude wasn’t really called for. He’d barely interacted with the man in charge since he’d been selected for this mission, and Hale had never been anything but professional, even when Stiles had pushed, and he _had_ pushed. He’d wanted to see what happened when he knocked the big bad wolf— _Of course he was a werewolf. It wouldn’t be Stiles’s life if it didn’t end up revolving around a fucking werewolf._ —off kilter, but he hadn’t gotten much more than a hard stare and a few slightly-more-familiar-than-a-coworker chemosignal sniffs. 

To be honest, Derek wasn’t at all what he’d expected when he’d gotten this assignment. He’d half expected some flabby guy with a hard-on for making twinks lick his boots or crawl around behind him on a leash to be in charge. Derek Hale, on the other hand, could easily have passed as one of the ex-Marines at Quantico. He had a certain air of authority that probably served him well in his dungeon, but that still didn’t make him Stiles’s boss. He was here to learn how the game worked, that was all, not play it.

“Have a seat.” Derek motioned to the chair that Stiles was already sitting in and lifted an eyebrow, disapproval clear on his face. Stiles had always wanted to be able to lift just one eyebrow, but no dice. Yet another way that the wolf was unfairly favored.

“Thanks, man,” he forced a laugh, knowing he’d probably pissed the other man off by not waiting for the invitation to sit, but he was tired, and Hale could deal with it. “Long freaking day, you know? But really, what’s up? I guess Lydia told you that I finished the knot tying lessons this afternoon? And I finished that course on temperature play safety yesterday with Boyd, so… I’m thinking all I need is for you to sign off on the paperwork and I can get out of your hair.”

Stiles was man enough to admit that if he’d run into Derek Hale _anywhere_ else, he’d have tried to climb him like a tree. He was a little taller and more than a little broader than him, with black hair just long enough to pull and muscle definition that would make professional athletes jealous. Add a family fortune that had more in common with the Rockefellers than the Kardashians, and a face that wouldn’t look out of place on one of the billboards over Times Square, and he was actually, nauseatingly perfect. 

“I’ve spoken to both _Mistress Martin_ and _Master Boyd_. They reported that your skills were,” Hale paused, like he was considering his words, and Stiles forced himself not to fidget, “acceptable.”

He fidgeted. Just a twist of fingers and a tap on his thigh, but it was a fidget, and the moment of weakness drew Derek’s attention like a beacon. Shit.

“I’m assuming from your tone that _acceptable_ is not what we’re aiming for here?” Stiles scrabbled back control of his movements, holding the other man’s opaline gaze. “Don’t tell me, Hale-warts requires an Exceeds Expectations before allowing someone to graduate to full-fledged Whip Wielder status?”

Derek froze, legs shoulder width apart, hands loosely clasped behind his back in a parody of parade rest and shook his head, eyes never breaking contact. “And _there_ is the problem, Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles snorted. Like a disapproving head shake was going to change the way he acted. He may not be a hundred and forty-seven pounds of fragile bones and sarcasm anymore, but the snark he’d forged in his younger days was just as sharp as ever, and he wielded _that_ Outstandingly. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow. I’ve done every lesson, taken every class, fulfilled every part of my contract with The Den. If your instructors had a problem, they should have said something.”

Derek just stared at him for a moment. “My instructors report to _me_ , not you Agent, and they did say something. As a matter of fact, they said many things. Would you like to hear a few of them?”

The rumble in his voice straddled a line somewhere between _conversational_ and _Danger, Danger Will Robinson_ , and Stiles felt something like nerves curl in his stomach. It shouldn’t have affected him—he’d been through terrorism training that made this look like a PTA meeting—but there was just something about Derek Hale that pushed his buttons.

So, he pushed back.

“By all means, _Sir_ ,” he said, defiance clear in the title, “I’m always open to suggestions for improvement.”

Something flashed in the wolf’s eyes. “Funny. Master Argent said something to that effect, actually. He praised your knife work and your attention to detail. Said that you were like a sponge, soaking up information.”

Stiles shifted a little, praise sitting uncomfortably after the earlier criticism. “That sounds more than _adequate_.”

Derek nodded. “It was. Until he followed it up with the fact that after learning the process, the minute he gave you a series of directions to follow with a sub you failed and went off on your own because you refused to follow someone else’s orders.”

Stiles huffed, “Chris clearly didn’t tell you the whole story. I was watching what the sub was…”

“ _Master Argent,”_ Derek snapped, “was the instructor. You were the student, and you failed to follow direction. _End_ of story.”

Stiles’s jaw stuck out mutinously. “I won’t argue that he was the instructor, but...”

Derek wasn’t having it. He practically snarled.

“ _But you will_ argue everything else. Mistress Lydia had nothing but compliments for your rope skills, said you had lovely fingers and an excellent grasp of the spatial constructs required for suspension, but that you got ahead of yourself and wouldn’t listen when she tried to reel you back in. Master Boyd refused to fail you for the temperature safety class, but he said you needed something he couldn’t give you to get where you needed to be.”

Stiles thought about Boyd, a large, careful man who could read a body under his hands more clearly than many of the interrogation experts back at field headquarters. “What did he say I needed?”

His voice sounded like he’d been gargling rocks, but he forced the question out, dreading the answer.

“Would you care to guess?” Derek rested his hands on the table’s top, fingers splayed, and Stiles shrugged. He’d play along. His commanding officer was counting on him to successfully complete this training so he could proceed to the next stage of infiltrating a suspected human trafficking ring that worked out of the back of a high-end BDSM club, and the only way in, the only way to really get a feel for what was happening was to come in the front door and prove himself to be a reliable practitioner of the lifestyle. If the instructors here wouldn’t sign off on him, they’d yank him back to desk duty in a heartbeat, and he wouldn’t let that happen. The field was where he could do the most good. It was where he belonged.

“I don’t know about Boyd, but Lydia,” that got him a growl and he backed up a little, rolling his eyes, “Sorry, _Mistress Lydia_ probably said I needed a good spanking. That sounds like something she’d say.”

Derek gave him a pitying look. “She actually suggested I throw you out. She doesn’t believe that you have it in you to even _pretend_ to be a Dom.”

Stiles’s eyes bugged out. “Hold up now, I did everything she told me to do. I followed her directions to a T.”

The wolf walked around the end of the table and leaned against its edge a few feet away from him. “And during all that time you never once addressed her by her title or thanked her for her assistance or seemed to, in any way, appreciate her instruction.”

Heat flooded his face, and he looked away. How could he explain that he’d been fighting an _unprofessional_ reaction the whole time he’d been handling the red silk ropes that the Shibari Mistress used for his training, trying not to lose his focus in an ADHD-complicated haze of fascination and hunger for the look of peace on her sub’s face? To not give into the urge to let the redhead use _him_ for her suspension lessons? He couldn't, so he didn't.

“I appreciated it; I just didn’t think it necessary to thank her for doing her job. I mean, it is her job to teach this stuff, right?” He laced his answer with snark in an attempt to disguise his discomfort.

“This _stuff_ ,” Hale snarked back, “is something she’s dedicated years of her life to and you come in and act like it’s a Boy Scout badge that means nothing more than a new way to tie your trainers when you’re headed out running.”

Stiles scrubbed his hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, I get that I could have been a little more respectful…”

Derek slid a little closer, frown still tight on his face. “A little more respectful, Agent? You’re expecting to walk into a professional dungeon where the members consider respect and the use of titles to be as basic a requirement as no shoes, no shirt, no service at a restaurant. You have zero understanding of what it means to be given the respect and responsibility of a Dom. You defy authority at every turn, break every rule, push every person you interact with to the edge. You’re so persistent that I’d almost think you were pushing for some specific reaction.”

Stiles’s breath caught in his chest, and he hated that the werewolf could hear his heart race. _Attention_ . The word popped into his head as clear as day. _He craved the attention_. Maybe it was some sad side-effect of an absentee parent or wanting to screw the authority figure in his life for failing to support him in favor of serving the public. Maybe it was a carryover from his days where the local packs failed Scott when he’d been bitten and left him struggling as a squishy human thrown into the deep end with supernatural creatures that could eat him like a late afternoon snack. Whatever the cause, he was fed up with not being the important factor in the equation, so he broke the rules. It got him the attention he craved _and_ it let him control the situation. But surely a Dom was someone who wanted attention and control, too. Derek certainly expected both.

“I like to be in control.” He knew the words for a lie as soon as he spoke them, and so did the wolf.

“Care to try that again, Stiles?” It was the first time the man had ever used Stiles’s name instead of his title, but Derek’s tone was painfully patronizing, and Stiles wanted nothing more than to knock the arrogant look off his face. The only thing was, he didn’t trust himself to stop at one swing if he started, and he knew that no matter how good he’d gotten at hand-to-hand over the past few years, the werewolf would still kick his ass.

Stiles glared up at him instead. “Okay, how about this, _Derek_? I’ve seen too many raging incompetents in positions of control, and since I’ve learned that it’s better the idiot I know instead of the idiot I don’t, I prefer to be in control.”

The werewolf’s eyes flashed red at the blatant challenge, but Stiles didn’t flinch, instead he leaned forward into the other man’s space, putting his face close enough to the alpha's throat that his wolf would know it for the threat it was.

“So. As long as we’re sharing,” he knew he was pushing his luck, but couldn’t bring himself to care, “what do _you_ prefer? Floggers at ten paces? Snip, snails, and cat-o-nine-tails? Or let me guess, you just stand around expecting everyone to jump when you snap your fingers because you write their checks?”

The wolf moved faster than Stiles's eyes could follow, closing the remaining distance between them. Hot breath scalded the skin of his neck, and Derek's dropped fangs poised for a long second along his jugular in a silent but flagrant show of force before withdrawing just far enough that he wouldn't draw blood when he spoke.

“I _expect_ people to do what the experts they've hired tell them. I _expect_ the respect that I extend to be returned, but I _prefer_ …” long fingers hovered where his pulse hammered at the base of his throat, and Stiles could feel the sandpaper scrape of whiskers against his hypersensitive skin. Derek’s mouth lingered so close that the words vibrated against his skin as they were spoken. “Oh, I _prefer_ putting mouthy brats like you on their knees and teaching them to stop trying to burn themselves on fire that’s _too hot for them to handle_.”

The werewolf’s teeth were a little too long, a little too sharp, and Stiles couldn’t deny that he wanted them longer, and sharper, and dug into the meat of his shoulder. He shuddered and forced himself not to turn his face into the wolf's neck.

“I could handle anything you could dish out.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, rough and breathless as it was in the quiet room.

Derek laughed at that, dark and suggestive. “Stiles, you still don't get it do you? I’d take you apart and scatter the pieces. Strip you down to your bones. You don’t trust anyone, and without that, a Dom would shatter you like glass. I won’t do that. I Dom because I want everything you have to give, given freely. You give nothing? You get nothing. A Dom would starve on what you offered.”

He pulled back and blatantly adjusted the hard length of his cock where it pressed against his trouser placket, eyes still bleeding red at the edges. Stiles was reluctantly impressed with his control. He didn’t feel nearly that stable.

Derek returned to the far side of the table and slid a folder across the polished surface. Stiles pulled it towards himself with a single finger, trying not to show how shaky he felt. “What’s this? Kicking me out after all?”

The wolf shook his head, as calm and collected as he’d been at the beginning. “No. Master Boyd was right. You’re smart and you've got the potential to carry this off, but you need to experience a few things before I can recommend that you be approved for the next steps.”

Stiles swallowed; his throat was tight. “And what would those things be?”

Intelligence and ADHD fueled an incredibly vivid imagination, and he could feel his heart rate speeding up again, rocketing under his breastbone so loudly that he knew the wolf could hear every flutter and kick.

Derek raised his eyes, red gone but the compelling opalescent shine commanding even more of his attention. “Nothing too strenuous. I want you to shadow one of the subs for the next week. Erica is a brat. I want you to watch how she asks for what she needs without ever actually asking. I want you to see the give and take that happens between her and her Dom. She’s a challenge, but Master Boyd has the patience of a saint, and cares for her deeply. If you can manage the week, keeping your mouth shut, respecting the process and the people, I will sign off on your paperwork. If not, I’ll contact your commanding officer and tell her to send me someone else.”

Stiles wanted to argue, wanted to lash out at this man with his I-know-better-than-you attitude, but this wasn’t a fight he could win, and honestly by fighting he would only prove the bastard’s point.

A week. He could keep his mouth shut for a week.

He met Derek’s eyes and faced the silent challenge there with an accepting nod.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” he said, rising to his full height, not trying to hide his own erection. Hale would see it as a sign of sexual immaturity to deny the reality of his body’s reactions. The wolf dropped a little fang and Stiles sucked in a tight breath at the unexpected smirk. It changed the other man’s demeanor completely.

“I look forward to seeing your success, Agent.” Derek breathed in deeply and Stiles knew he was scenting his arousal. He nodded and acknowledged to himself, whether he’d ever admit it to anyone else, that he wanted the werewolf’s approval more than was probably healthy.

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint. Sir.”

The corner of the ‘wolf’s mouth lifted in a predatory smile, and Stiles fought down a shiver. He was so fucked.

  
  



	2. Foreign Love Languages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags have changed. This chapter is mostly Boyd and Erica, with all the applicable F/M body parts. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

“You’re really okay with me just following you around for a week?”

Stiles had been given contact information for one Erica Reyes, a prosecutor in the local DA’s office, and had been told to contact her within twenty-four hours. It had taken him twenty to get up enough nerve.

The blonde gave him a look. “If you’re not up for this, tell me now. I don’t have time to fuck around with a wannabe. You’re either in or you’re out. What’s it going to be?”

Half an hour and access to the FBI’s databases had given him a two-dimensional image of the woman, but in person she was almost larger than life. She was beautiful—great hair, great lips, curves to die for—but it was the sharp edge of her personality that was most appealing. This was a woman who would eat someone alive and not bother to spit out the bones.

“No, no, I’m in. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t being…” his voice faded away and he had a hard time meeting Erica’s eyes. “I mean, if you’d been given a choice about all… this.” He flailed his hand to indicate the incredibly awkward situation, but the look on her face made it clear that he was the only one feeling the awkwardness.

“You think, somehow, that I’m being coerced into doing this? That what? My Dom is going to beat me because I said I wasn’t comfortable with some lanky Feeb following me around for a week? That somehow I don’t have a choice in this?” She snorted. “You really do need the remedial BDSM classes, don’t you? This…” she waved her hand, mocking his earlier movement, “is entirely safe, sane, and consensual. _Consensual_. Do you need a dictionary? I think we have one in the office—maybe even one of those huge unabridged fuckers that you could use as a bludgeon if you had the need. I’m actually thinking you might benefit from a whack over the head with it. Or maybe that’s just me.”

Stiles sighed. “Look. I get it. Really. It just strange to me that you’d sign off on having someone you’ve never met and know nothing about being dumped into your private life. I know I wouldn’t be comfortable with it, and I thought it was only right to ask you, straight up. No games, no Doms, no one watching… just, are you okay with it?”

A little of the fight leached out of her, but she still looked pissed. “Look. I’m not the best person to explain this to you because I am _so_ not a Dom that it isn’t even funny. I have enough on my plate putting crack dealers, abusive pimps, and the occasional murderer behind bars. However, I know that you’re doing all of this,” she waved her hand again and Stiles was seriously beginning to regret ever having shown that side of himself to her, “for a good reason. Master Hale didn’t tell us details, but I know you’re a Fed, and I’ve worked with enough Feds to know that you’re actually not that bad. So, since I trust Master Hale and he vouches for you, and Boyd has given his approval, I don’t have a problem.”

She picked up a leather messenger bag and shoved it at him. “However, because I can’t just have any rando walking around through the offices, you are now officially my security detail. Take this and go change.”

Stiles juggled the bag, surprise making him more clumsy than usual. “Security detail?”

Erica shrugged. “It’s not that unusual. We get a lot of death threats because of the work we do, and some of them are serious. I just finished a case that was drug related, so the idea is that someone decided it was time “to shut that big bitch mouth up” and you are here as private security to make sure nothing happens to poor little me.”

Her matter-of-fact approach to that kind of threat was disappointing. Clearly it had happened before. There was, however, something ironic about someone targeting a female werewolf like that.

“Shut you up, huh?” He said, shouldering the bag and falling into step beside her. “Doesn’t sound easy.”

Erica grinned for the first time since they started talking, but there was a feral challenge to the edge of it. “You have no idea. But you will.” She winked. “Believe me.”

***

Stiles headed for the shower when they got to Erica’s apartment after work, glad for the escape. It was much nicer than he’d expected—old building, but clearly renovated—and he figured there was money coming from somewhere other than the salary of a city employee, no matter how up-and-coming she was.

He stripped quickly, dropping the uniform he’d worn all day on the floor, and sighed in pleasure as he climbed under the spray. He’d have to ask if there was a washer and dryer he could use. TAC gear made him sweat like crazy, and the offices had been hot and miserable. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for the ‘wolves. He’d suffered through, though, sitting back and watching as Erica Reyes powered through her day, slaying paperwork and sexist coworkers with equal aplomb, but by the end of the day he could see the tightness around the corners of her eyes, and the unusual thinness of her lips as she struggled to not snap at people’s stupidity or laziness or moral bankruptcy, or in the case of her immediate superior, all three. Honestly, he didn’t know how the dude wasn’t dead yet.

Erica simply ignored him, letting every slimy thing the bastard said slip right past her, but by the end of the day, he could tell she was chomping at the bit to get away from him.

“Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath as she packed up her notes, “sometimes I want to just throw all this crap in the garbage and grab the first flight to Tahiti. Sun, sand, Boyd and never having to listen to Harrison again would be some version of heaven.”

Stiles grabbed his own bag and slid into guard position behind her, reflexively scanning the surroundings. He might not actually be security, but he knew how to act the part. “Why don’t you?”

Erica didn’t respond immediately, too busy weaving through the masses exiting the building at the end of the day. Laser focused, they made it into and out of the elevators, and finally out into the parking garage, where a black car waited for them.

She leveled a look at him, and Stiles wondered if he’d managed to piss her off again. “I’d get bored. I’d last a week. Two, tops, if Boyd kept me busy. After that… yeah, beach bunny life isn’t for me.” She opened her own car door and indicated for him to climb in the front. “Now, shut up, get in, and start paying attention. School starts now.”

Stiles swallowed once, shut up, and got in.

Boyd— _Master_ Boyd—was in the back seat waiting, and everything about Erica changed the moment she saw him. Her shoulders lowered and her jaw unclenched, and she smiled—really smiled—for the first time in hours. Not what he was expecting, honestly.

“Hey Baby,” Boyd wasn’t wearing anything unusual, no bad porn leather or latex, just soft gray trousers, and a dress shirt. He was a slab of a man, someone you definitely wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, but he never seemed angry or on edge like some other people Stiles met at The Den. No, Boyd was all zen energy and focus. Next to him, Erica seemed like she was vibrating she was wound so tightly. “Bad day?”

Boyd pulled a fragile strip of pink velvet out of his pocket, and Stiles caught the glimmer of a tiny charm as he settled the ribbon around Erica’s neck. “Not bad, Daddy,” she said, leaning into his meaty shoulder as much as the seatbelt would allow, “just long. Harrison was—difficult.”

Stiles had to bite his tongue not to jump in with Harrison had been a sexually harassing douchecanoe, and that Erica shouldn’t have to put up with his bullshit, but he’d seen enough of his female coworkers’ struggles to know that wasn’t helpful, and anyway… his orders were to shut up and watch, and for once, he was going to follow orders.

“You got much work to do tonight?” Boyd rested his big hand on Erica’s knee, gently squeezing, and she sighed.

“Too much. Need to finish two things before my 8 a.m. with Marvin, and I need to pull my case notes for a domestic abuse case that came through the office a few months ago. Rehab and restraining order weren’t enough to keep the bastard away, and now we’re dealing with the fallout.”

The fallout was a woman in the hospital with four broken bones and a kid that was being shunted into foster care until someone from the family could be found to take him that wasn’t going to just turn around and hand him over to his psycho dad. Erica had had to take a few minutes in the ladies’ lounge when the case came in. Stiles knew it was to keep herself from wolfing out because she was so angry and frustrated, but Harrison mocked her as soon as she left the room for her _delicate sensibilities_. He didn’t know Erica would be able to hear him, but clearly, he didn’t care. 

“Okay, then, this is what we’re going to do. I want you to take your work into the little office and finish up what you need to. I’ll have dinner for you when you’re done. Bath after.”

Erica screwed up her face, “I don’t wanna take a bath tonight. I’m tired. I just want to get this shit done and go to bed.”

And then, something in the atmosphere shifted. Boyd’s hand tightened on her knee and he turned in the seat to face her fully. “First, you know better than to use language like that, Baby, and second, just because we’ve got company doesn’t mean you’re going to get away with sassing me. Understand? Now apologize.”

Erica flashed a look towards the back of Stiles’s head, eyes gold and lip stuck out mutinously; he wondered what that was about. “No.” She jerked her knee away and slid a few inches towards the door. “I didn’t sass you, Daddy, I just told you I didn’t want to take a bath.”

Boyd frowned. “You know that you don’t get to make that decision, and I know that you’re just acting out. Now, _apologize_ , or a bath isn’t the only thing you’re going to have to take tonight.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, _Boyd_.” She looked out the window, back stiff, hands white knuckled around the hem of her blazer.

Boyd sat back in the cushion, still as intimidating as ever. “That’s two strikes. I don’t threaten, Baby. You know that.”

He hadn’t been kidding.

Stiles turned off the water and climbed out of the shower. He scrubbed his face with a towel and tried to reconcile everything he’d seen.

Boyd never raised his voice. Erica had pouted and threatened and refused to get in the elevator, and Boyd had just wrapped an arm around her and chivvied her forward like a toddler. She’d sniffed and told him he didn’t love her. She whined to Stiles to help her, that Boyd was being mean, but he’d just stood to one side and shook his head, marveling at the occasional canny gleam in the blonde’s eyes as she tried to play her way out of whatever situation she’d gotten into.

It took about five minutes for him to realize—yes, he _was_ that stupid—that she didn’t actually want out of anything. She was driving the whole scene, pushing Boyd into reacting certain ways because they had rules in place that he always, _always_ followed.

The big man ushered Erica into her office, efficiently decorated but soft, padded chairs and pink curtains and a lamp with a pink and cream shade. The desk was some dark wood, and sturdy, and Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever been bent over it and spanked or fucked or whatever Daddy’s did to their misbehaving brats.

He figured she had. He also figured she didn’t mind one bit. That was the thing—even with all the ruckus she was making, the terrible tightness was gone from her shoulders, and her lips curved into a smile sometimes when Boyd wasn’t looking. She wanted this. Needed this.

It was hard to wrap his head around.

Oh, he’d read the literature. He knew that subs often had high stress positions and that giving control over to someone else was supposed to let them relax somehow. He just had never seen how it worked, before. Having someone tell him off for breaking rules had never made him feel relaxed, that was for damn sure. And as far as shouldering the stress for him? He didn’t trust anyone that much.

A knock at the door pulled him from his reverie. “Dinner’s on the table if you’re hungry. Nothing fancy, but I made enough for all of us. Figured we should start as we meant to go on for the week.”

Stiles nodded. “Thanks, man… uh, I mean Master Boyd.” He stumbled over the title, but he’d told himself he’d make the effort.

“Just call me Boyd while you’re here. I’m not your Dom or your Daddy, and anyway, Erica doesn’t like to share.”

“Share? Like it would piss her off for me to call you Master Boyd?” he asked.

“Exactly like that,” Boyd nodded. “Our relationship is exclusive, which means that she only answers to me, and that I don’t play with anyone but her. It let’s her feel safer. Like her position in my life is important enough for me to give up the chance to have someone else kneel for me.”

Stiles understood that. Wanting to come first. Wanting to be someone’s _only_.

“You being here,” Boyd was searching for words, but he got the impression it was because he didn’t want Stiles to walk away with a bad impression of Erica, “it gives her an audience, and she likes an audience, so she’s acting out.”

Stiles wondered what to do with that. “Like an exhibitionist likes an audience?”

Boyd smiled slow and wide. “Sometimes. Today, though, she just wants the attention. Her boss pushes her buttons on a normal day, and then add having someone else in the house, she needs to push the boundaries to make sure they’re still there. That her world is stable, and that I’m not going to leave her hanging, or choose a new toy just because he’s living in the house for a week.”

_Now, wasn’t that a thought_? He pushed it to the back of his mind and nodded. “Gotcha. Thanks for the explanation. Having the Cliffs Notes helps.”

Boyd just nodded back and headed back in the direction of the kitchen. Dinner was going to be interesting.

He hadn’t been prepared for watching the spanking and he tried not to think about what it meant that it left _him_ hard and wanting after Erica had been soothed and brought back down from the edge of _too much_ and tears.

Hours later he was still trying.

***

Thursday was bad. Everything that could go wrong, had gone wrong. Stiles had actually stepped in and pulled a coked-up client away from Erica, but he couldn’t stop the raging vitriol he was spewing from getting everywhere. She was raging, livid, and when it came time for lunch, instead of going out, Erica called Boyd. 

He’d gotten there in ten minutes.

“You’re driving,” she growled at Stiles, and he noticed that the regular driver had gotten out of the black sedan and taken a seat on a bench by the elevator bank. He got behind the wheel and waited for orders.

Boyd guided her into the back seat, leaning over to buckle her seat belt for her. “Hold on, Baby.” His voice was low and soothing. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? Just give me a minute to get things situated.”

Erica let out a whine that raised the hair on the back of his neck, but Boyd just shushed her and kissed her temple. “That’s good, Baby-girl,” he said, the praise thick and warm, “you’re so good to let me know what you need. Now, be my good girl and wait just a minute. Can you do that for me? Be my good girl?”

The blonde nodded once, tightly, and Boyd praised her again before shutting the door and walking around to Stiles’s window.

“Need you to drive down to Centennial Park. Take the underpass on Lincoln. Don’t turn on Fifth, there are traffic cameras. Once we hit the park, just loop back here. The route takes about forty minutes. Make sure no one notices us. Can you do that?”

Stiles had more than enough evasive driving training to stay under the average traffic cop’s radar. “Can do.”

Boyd didn’t respond, he just climbed into the back, pulling a bag and a thermos from the footwell.

“You want your ribbon, Baby?” Stiles glanced into the rearview mirror. Boyd’s big fingers made Erica’s throat look even more fragile than usual, and Stiles knew that even though she was a werewolf, the man could do real damage if he wanted. Stiles had figured out that that part of the couple’s dynamic was important. Erica needed to feel like her safety was Boyd’s _choice_ , that his care for her was more valuable because he _was_ dangerous. A regular guy wouldn’t have been able to hold her down and spank her the way Boyd could. They wouldn’t have been able to withstand the claws she let slip when she was bratting. They would never have the physical upper hand, never have been able to handle her, and she would have had to control herself so she didn’t hurt them, and that was exactly what she wanted a break from.

“Need more than the ribbon, Daddy.” Erica was hoarse, her eyes wide and wild, and Boyd dropped a soothing kiss to the open collar of her blouse.

“I know, Baby, I know,” he said, nipping lightly at the soft skin, “and I’m going to give it to you. Did you take off your panties before you came down?”

Blonde curls bobbed. “Yes, Daddy. Didn’t want to wait.”

That explained the quick detour to the restroom, Stiles thought. His mind skittered away from the details—how wet she must be, how her heart must be racing, how she wanted her Daddy to take everything away and just make her feel something, something good and right and chosen and safe—but they’d invited him into this, and the fact was that this was what he was supposed to be learning. He was _supposed_ to know how she felt, know what she needed, be able to read a situation so he could provide those things for someone else.

It was hard when he couldn’t help but think how nice it would be for someone to do this for _him_.

“That’s it.” Erica gasped at whatever Boyd was doing, and Stiles met her eyes in the rearview mirror. She bared her teeth and hissed.

“’S cold, Daddy,” she said, the words hitching on her breath. Boyd had opened the thermos, ice clinking inside, and Stiles ran through the lessons he’d had on temperature play under the big man’s careful tutelage. He’d seemed partial to chilling toys before use rather than using ice directly on excited skin, and that seemed to be the case here.

“Your toy’s cold, but your skin is hot. Doesn’t it feel good?” Boyd’s question almost drowned out the slick sounds coming from the back seat, but not entirely. “Want you to feel good, Baby. Focus on the shiver. Can you feel it? Feel it building?”

A quiet buzz joined the _schlick schlick_ sound of the dildo as it played across the blonde wolf’s most private parts. She kept staring at him in the mirror, challenging him, forcing him to share the moment, wanting him to know, wanting him to _see_ , letting Boyd show her off. 

He shifted in his seat, his own excitement growing, and she smiled a little smugly knowing that she and Boyd were doing that to him.

“Yes, you’re pretty aren’t you,” he could hear the smile in Boyd’s voice as well, “letting him watch you. Knowing he likes what he sees. You like being seen, don’t you Baby-girl?” The buzz ratcheted up another notch. “Let’s show him something _gorgeous_.”

A few more minutes passed and Erica let out a tiny _ah ah ah_ and then groaned, long and shuddering, and even without wolf senses, Stiles knew she’d come, her eyes finally falling shut against the pleasure that had taken over.

“That’s my girl,” Boyd murmured, kissing the side of her face, and letting her turn into the broad warmth of his body, “so beautiful. All that pleasure, right under your skin. That’s all for you, Baby. Ride it out, for me.”

She shifted, long legs clenching and stretching as the waves of her orgasm receded, and when she finally reopened her eyes, they were clear and bright again.

“Feeling better?” The answer was obvious, but the question was sincere.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, nuzzling against the underside of her Daddy’s chin, a cross between sated woman and comfort seeking wolf. “Everything’s better now, thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he said, reaching into his back for another thermos that he pulled a damp cloth from, wiping the evidence of their activities away so that his Baby could go back to the office without worrying about being a mess. It was touching to see that level of preparedness and forethought. Erica was a lucky brat. “You did so good for me. Letting me know what you needed. Letting me take care of you.”

They touched and petted as Stiles made the last few turns before pulling into the parking garage. When they exited the vehicle Erica looked cool and poised and totally unruffled, and Boyd? Well, his smile was small, but heartfelt.

“Ready to head back in, Stilinski?” The blonde jerked her head towards the elevators, and he nodded. The driver slipped a bookmark into the novel he was reading and slipped back into the driver’s seat without comment, and the sedan pulled away.

“That happen often?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“No. Full moon’s tomorrow. Today wouldn’t have been so bad if my wolf hadn’t been demanding that I rip every asshole’s head off and shove it down their throats. Boyd knows, though. His wolf likes taking care of pack, so it works for both of us.”

Stiles nodded and pressed the call button. It clearly did. He could respect that.

***

Derek pushed the folder across the desk. “I think everything is in there.”

Stiles took his release papers and slipped them into his bag. In some ways the week had flown by, and in others he’d felt like it had taken forever. “Thank you. Master Boyd had no problem signing off on things?”

The older wolf shook his head. “None at all. He said you were respectful, interested, and invested in understanding their dynamic. Erica approved of you as well, and honestly,” he smiled, “of the two of them, she’s the more demanding.”

Stiles would have boggled at that at one time, the thought that the sub in a dominant/submissive relationship was more particular than the Dom, but after watching a functional pair up close he knew better. “I’m glad they were satisfied. The week was—enlightening.”

Derek watched him, and Stiles felt oddly vulnerable, his normal armor of insolence gone. “I’m happy to hear it. I hope you understand, now, why I felt like you weren’t ready to move on.”

He nodded. Even heading into an undercover situation where he was _supposed_ to be a bad Dom, you didn’t want to have someone breaking rules they didn’t understand. Too much real damage could be done that way, and while the end goal of the mission might still be attainable, the fallout could be significant.

“I do,” he said, trying to make his sincerity clear. The wolf could probably smell it on him, but it was still important. “I hope that my earlier moments of, ah, insubordination haven’t left any hard feelings.”

“Water under the bridge, Agent,” the Master of The Den gave his approval and stood, holding a strong hand out across the desk. “I hope your operation is successful.”

They shook hands and if Stiles held on a half-second longer than he had to… well, nobody needed to know but him.


	3. Lying to Find the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning and New Tags!
> 
> This chapter deals with actual BDSM behaviors as well as abuse masquerading as BDSM behaviors. There are mild references to blood play, bodily fluids, and general cruelty. If this kind of thing upsets you, please skip it. Remember--be kind to yourself!
> 
> This chapter hit almost 10K words, so it's a monster and I apologize, but I just couldn't see a place to break the action into two parts. I hope you guys don't mind, and again, thanks for reading!

Sanctum had been on the FBI’s radar for years. Sex clubs were generally watched pretty closely—there was a lot of money changing hands and a lot of secrecy around them, so graft and abuse ran rampant. Sanctum, though, looked fairly good on the surface, but there had been a lot of rumors over the past few years about behind the scenes crime.

The current owner was a man named Ennis. He could have been punched from a pattern titled Tough Guy, Model 3, size XL. Six foot four in his sock feet, in black boots he _towered_ over everyone in the lounge.

“Good evening, Mr. Wójcik. Welcome to Sanctum. I hope you find what you’re looking for tonight.”

The door was manned by a pair of younger men, one checking IDs and handling paperwork, and the other standing guard. They’d been clocked as Ennis’s proteges, young men with too much money and way too much boredom, ushered into the BDSM lifestyle as soon as they’d come of age, and honestly, probably before.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, tossing his company issued just-hit-the-market phone carelessly on the desk. Photos and video weren’t allowed inside the club. Luckily, he had other toys to take care of those needs. He was sure other people inside did as well, though, so he needed to make sure he didn’t make too much of a spectacle of himself. “I’m not expecting much, but Bobby Finstock suggested I give this place a try.”

Finstock was known in the BDSM community, a little on the fringes of the elite, but close enough to several money men that his name would open some doors. As Tyler Wójcik, he was walking a line. Wójcik was a computer guy, small market but had released an app when he was in his early twenties that had made him enough money that he never had to work again. In reality, the app had been created and released by the FBI as a cover for someone who would be named later, it was just Stiles’s luck that that someone ended up being him.

He’d done his undergrad work in computers and software development so he could keep up with the technical jargon as well as the humor, every little piece a social handshake that reinforced that he was exactly who he said he was.

Tonight, though, Tyler Wójcik was a black sheep wandering into new fields. His behavior had gotten him banned from The Den in Los Angeles, and all the associated Hale-run clubs on the west coast. Sanctum, though, with its flagship club in San Jose, was close enough to both San Francisco and LA that it could cater to the rich and famous from both cities, with a little less publicity than was usually expected in those places. 

The twin putting away his phone gave him a smile, a little smarmy but still attractive, “Don’t give up before you even get inside. I promise, you’re going to like it here. We have something for everyone.”

Stiles snorted. “Somehow I doubt it. Hasn’t been the case so far.”

Another voice joined in the conversation, and Stiles turned to face its owner. Tall woman, pretty in a severe way. The only name they had on file for her was Kali, and he knew that in the club she was often called the Goddess of Destruction. She liked knives, and from the pale scars on her dark skin, it was clear she didn’t restrict their use to her subs. 

“Mr. Wójcik, please, allow me to show you around,” she said, carefully not touching him as she guided him forward. The lobby was decorated in what Stiles couldn’t help but think of as the-decorator-barfed-Slytherin-all-over-everything, dark green and black and silver as far as the eye could see, and he wondered with a smothered laugh if the other clubs were done in the other house colors. “Ennis told me to expect you this evening. Is there anything I can get you to start? Something from the bar?”

Stiles had sent in all the paperwork to set up an account with the club, so the company was footing the bill—why not? “Sure. Sounds like a fine way to start the evening.”

Kali led him through the crowded foyer and down a flight of stairs into a speakeasy style space, quieter and darker than the front rooms. The crowd was in various stages of dress, all of it expensive, and inversely proportional to how much material there was. A tall blonde that reminded him of Erica Reyes walked past leading an even taller man in a three-piece suit on a leash. A man that barely looked old enough to drive was kneeling by a bald man who kept petting him like an overgrown retriever.

“This is one of our VIP lounges.” Kali held her hand out and in it was a black braided wristlet with a gold bead.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking the bracelet, and putting it on. “Asking me to go steady already? I don’t know, you’re not exactly my type.”

A tiny muscle flexed at the hinge of Kali’s jaw, and Stiles smirked. His cover was an asshole; it was nice to have permission to be himself. 

“Actually, Mr. Wójcik, it’s a key,” she said, “it will allow you into areas of the club that aren’t open to the general public. It also gives you access to one of the private rooms downstairs in case you find someone you’d like to spend some private time with this evening. It indicates that your credentials have already been approved, and sets up a line of credit for you so you don’t have to worry about mundane things like record keeping when you’d rather be focused on more _enjoyable pursuits_.”

It made a lot of sense. The well-to-do up and down Park Avenue wouldn’t want to have to stop their games to pay for a drink or reserve a room. Getting it all tucked away at the beginning was actually pretty brilliant. It also worked to his advantage, letting him spend as little time proving that he belonged there. His boss had been afraid that he was going to have to do a little more legwork on the front end of things to get access to the private rooms, but apparently, once again, money talked and that was the first hurdle cleared.

The bartender was hovering by this point and he held out a tiny scanner, holding it over the bead on Stiles’s bracelet for a heartbeat. So, probably RFID. Possibly a GPS locator, but that was a problem for future Stiles. Tonight was just for setting the stage. He jerked his wandering thoughts back; Kali was talking again.

“The public shows start at ten in the Nave, which is down the stairs and to the left. Private showings are posted on the status screens you’ll find scattered around the club. Anything you want this evening, just let a member of the staff know, and they’ll take care of you,” she nodded to someone farther into the room and then turned to him, stretching her lips into a facsimile of a smile, “I hope you enjoy your time here at Sanctum. We’re happy to have you with us.”

And with that, she was gone— _finally_ —and that was hurdle number two crossed. The problem with being a new face in the crowd is that people pay attention to you. As long as the powers-that-be were focused on him, he wasn’t going to get anywhere. Luckily, he had experience in chasing people off. He took a moment to order a drink—nothing alcoholic for him this evening, since he was signed in as looking for a potential playmate and they didn’t want drunks beating on other people indiscriminately. They wanted their beatings to be _conscious_ and _intentional_. It still caused a mental disconnect when he thought about it, although not as much as it had six months ago.

He glanced around the room again. The man with the puppy had disappeared, and in his place was a wolf. Literally.

Peter Andrew Hale, eldest son of the Hale family, the fulfillment of every bad boy stereotype ever created. Hot, built, rich, and fond of breaking the rules. Arrested over a dozen times on charges ranging from public indecency to car theft. Never convicted, although the owner of the Camaro that had been less than discrete about having dropped the charges because they paid him an obscene amount of money. He didn’t get the car back, though, which was mildly interesting. Hale had been seen driving it more than once during the investigation, like he was taunting the police. If he hadn’t been predisposed to think he was a thug, Stiles would probably like him.

He definitely wouldn’t have minded fucking him. Dude was unfairly good looking. Guess it ran in the family.

And… he was staring. At Stiles.

Now, it wasn’t that he was a bad looking guy, but someone like Peter Hale didn’t run with anything less than supermodels, so, it was a little fishy. His boss would tell him to mingle, to get out of the line of sight, to not make contact with a big wheel so early…. Stiles walked up and introduced himself.

“See something you like?” He posed, drink up, leg cocked forward, “I’d say take a picture it’d last longer, but the sticks-in-the-mud running the place don’t like cameras apparently.”

The older man shifted slightly, thick thighs falling open just a fraction wider, and Stiles thought he must be very used to having someone kneel in that space. This was not someone that let anyone else give him orders. No, he and his nephew had that in common.

“My memory is fine,” he said, an infinitesimal smirk on his lips, “although it is a pretty picture. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. New in town?”

Stiles snorted at the line. “No. Just new to Sanctum. Been in San Jose for years. I’m sure I’d have seen you around, though, so maybe you’re the new face in town?”

Hale nodded slightly. “Business brought me, but I’ve stayed for the…” he waved a hand languidly to encompass the room, “company. Ennis is an old friend.”

As far as pumping for information, it was pretty passive, but Wójcik would never resist an opportunity to talk about himself. “Old friend, huh?” He took a slug of his ridiculously overpriced juice. “From what I hear, Ennis doesn’t have friends. He has business partners, and sexual partners, and that’s about it. Where do you fall on the spectrum?”

And the asshole routine worked again. A sharp look and a gritted jaw appeared and vanished in a blink before Stiles could react. “I’ve known Ennis since University. So, just old friends.”

Stiles nodded knowingly. “Grandfathered in, huh. Gotcha. You old dudes gotta stick together. Probably get along better since you share the same,” he tried to imitate Peter’s graceful hand wave and failed, “interests.”

At the word _grandfathered_ he could have sworn he heard the wolf growl, but it got lost in the ambient noise. Apparently, Uncle Peter didn’t like his virility being called into question. Made sense. Alpha wolf and Dom, entitled rich boy. Any indictment of his superiority would go over badly.

“It does help,” he nodded, instantly in control again. Stiles bet the man rarely lost control. It would be a sight to see when he did, though. “And you? Are you here this evening with someone, or are you just exploring your own interests?”

Ah, an opening! Excellent. “I’m on my own. A regular guest told me that this place was good for getting interested parties together. My last regular partner recently moved away,” _to get away from his abusive partner_ , the grapevine would supply, “and I was hoping to meet someone who might be up for a little exploration. Nothing serious. I’m rather…” he let the statement hang, “ _particular_ in what I’m looking for. A good fit is hard to find sometimes, you know?”

Peter raised an eyebrow and then his drink, cocking his chin to indicate the area near the stairs. “Well, the shows are a good place to start. Maybe you’ll find something that piques your fancy.”

Stiles nodded, accepting the polite dismissal, and moving on. Staying near the wolf would have been dangerous. Hard to hide things like lying when you’re talking to a living lie detector. 

The rest of the crowd was what he’d expected. Some people who were clearly finding their way around like he was, and he took note of those faces. The long-term members of the club were much less likely to be involved in the sex-slave trade that had popped up around it, so new faces were possibly newly in the market.

A pretty woman in a leather corset that shoved her tits up around her chin pushed past him with a wink and a nod and he followed her down the stairs. She had a nice ass and he was supposed to be an asshole so ogling it was almost obligatory. There was a steady stream of bodies heading in the same direction and it only took a moment for them to get stuck in the traffic together.

“Hi there,” he said, “I’m Tyler. You look like you know where you’re going. Mind if I tag along?”

Tits McGee gave him a little smile, “Nice to meet you, Tyler. I’m Jennifer, and no, I don’t mind. You have someone else with you, or can I monopolize your attention?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nope. Just me tonight, baby. Monopolize away.”

The woman was a little older than she’d first appeared, and if the way she kept failing to meet his eyes was any indication, she wasn’t used to being the one driving in her relationships. That worked for him. He needed to get himself established as a Dom as quickly and publicly as possible.

“Can I get you something from the bar?” There was a hopeful note in her voice, like she enjoyed a little bit of service. “It can get a little dry in here sometimes.”

Stiles stepped into her personal bubble and rested the fingers of his right hand in the small of her back. “It’s good of you to offer, but no. I just finished something, and I’m more interested in exploring right now.”

Jennifer took that literally and nodded. “We have a few minutes before they’re going to start the vanilla show. Is that something you’d want to catch?”

Stiles shook his head. Watching people wander around in latex and leashes, with the occasional foray into flashing or public touching wasn’t what Tyler Wójcik would be looking for. Honestly, he found it boring, too, so he was happy to skip it.

“Not my thing, baby,” he said, gently circling his fingers against her back. Jennifer pressed back into it, so apparently his approach wasn’t unwelcome.

They stayed on the edge of the floor moving along the walls where there were fewer people, and she led him past the Nave, and into another room where the lighting was both a little brighter and less direct. 

“This is the north transept,” she said, indicating the space. “Usually they have a few benches or crosses set up for impact play in here. Across the way is, originally enough, the south transept, and that’s reserved for needle play, cupping, temperature play, anything psychological more than physical.”

Stiles could hear the little catch in her voice, and he leaned in. “Is that where you like to play, baby?”

Something like fear fluttered behind her eyes and she shook her head. “No. I don’t go in there anymore. I, uh, I used to, but my ex…” she looked at her feet and Stiles lifted her chin with an insistent finger and forced her to meet his eyes.

“I don’t want to know about your ex, baby,” he said, “I just want to know where you like to play.”

It wasn’t a good way to start, and something about Jennifer’s body language indicated that she knew it. Communication about kinks and issues and preferences often included past experiences, and to ignore that was to open a whole can of potential PTSD. Tyler Wójcik was an asshole, though, and didn’t care. It was just hard when Stiles did.

“I like it in here,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “I actually used to be one of the regulars for the impact play shows.”

“Well, then,” he said, scanning the room and finding an empty paddling bench. “Why don’t you and I get to know each other a little better.”

***

Four weeks, ten scenes, and three playmates later he was no closer to figuring out who was selling subs through Sanctum. Oh, he’d met the people in charge and been introduced to the regular subs that made themselves available to Doms who didn’t have permanent partners, but all of them had been there long enough to be fixtures. Danny who loved to kneel. Theo the brat. Malia who loved hot wax. And Jennifer who loved, loved, _loved_ getting her ass whipped.

It turned out that Kali was her ex, and that had been interesting. The other woman’s possessiveness bled over a little when he started paying attention to the sub, but it was clear that there wasn’t anything between them anymore, it was just an ingrained Dom jealousy that Kali didn’t manage to control completely. Stiles had made a point of rubbing his involvement with Jennifer in Kali’s face a few times; the sub didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she got off on it.

The problem was that getting in wasn’t good enough. A Good Samaritan had contacted the FBI with proof of life of three runaways, indicating that they’d been brought into the club and then sold off to the highest bidder. The market was for slaves, though, not subs, and the runaways hadn’t been seen in the club since. The informant was an unknown, but with proof like that, they were impossible to ignore, and Stiles was getting antsy and starting to push. During his last outing, he’d gagged Jennifer after strapping her to a bench and then proceeded to ignore her physical safewording. He’d been called to task, one of the dungeon monitors stepping in almost immediately—thank God—and he’d apologized and claimed he hadn’t been able to see the little blue ball she dropped. He soothed the reddened skin of her ass more thoroughly than usual, and laid praise on her thickly. He’d been given a one-time warning after Jennifer sided with him over the “accident” and he had to hope it was enough of an infraction to get the attention of whoever was running the sales. Otherwise he’d have to just start wearing a big sign that said, “Rule-breaking Fucktard Looking for Someone to Abuse” and hope they contacted him.

Tonight, Sanctum was hosting a big event; there were two specialists coming in with their entourages and he’d been promised that it would be a sight to behold. He had high hopes that something would break. He dressed carefully, his clothes having evolved from “High Street bespoke” to “leather so expensive you’d think it was harvested from dinosaurs” and he propped himself by the entrance to the north transept. He’d made it clear that impact play was his preference; there was no finesse to his dominance. His cover had been banned from clubs for not respecting safewords and he’d—allegedly—beaten his last sub so badly that he’d been hospitalized briefly. It made him sick to think about if he focused on it too much, so he didn’t. It was a job, and he wasn’t Tyler Wójcik. He just had to keep it under control for long enough to catch the bigger fishes’ eyes.

Peter Hale had become a constant. He didn’t have a sub, or at least he didn’t bring one to the club, but he liked to watch. He could be found lurking at the edges of the transepts, and more than once Stiles had seen the wolf breathing deeply, like the scent of domination and submission and sweat and sex was better than all the perfumes of Babylon. He also seemed to like to watch Stiles wield a flogger. He wasn’t alone—Stiles’s technique had been praised by several club goers, and he’d actually been invited to man one of the _education stations_ they occasionally had—but he was definitely the most intense about it. He wondered if the elder Hale recognized his nephew’s fingerprints on his style.

The club was crowded, more than usual, and Stiles gravitated to his regular spot only to find Kali already there, waiting.

“Mr. Wójcik,” she said with a toothy smile. She looked like a predator. “I’m happy that you’ve joined us this evening.”

Stiles shrugged and didn’t give her the courtesy of his full attention. “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I hope this is better than the regular play parties.”

The woman gritted her teeth and Stiles was glad. He didn’t like Kali. There was just something off-putting about her. The fact that Jennifer cringed when she got too close wasn’t a vote of confidence, either.

“I think you’ll be pleased,” she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out another strip of braided leather. This one was green—Yay more Slytherin. They really needed to expand their decorative horizons.—and she held it out to him. “If you’d be interested, there is a heavy impact play event this evening. Trained members only.”

“Open to interaction?” Stiles asked, reaching for the new bracelet. “I’m not in the mood to spectate tonight.”

Kali nodded. “Participation is encouraged.”

That was slightly unusual. Except for the education stations most shows were hands-off until aftercare, and then they only invited others in if the performers were open to it. For them to be allowing members to take part, they had to have some very tolerant subs. Better and better.

“Sounds promising. Where’s this taking place?” He snapped the new key in place, and finally met Kali’s eyes. The woman was coolly appraising him.

“The Apse.”

Stiles let himself nod once, taking in the time of the show starting and all the other information on autopilot.

The Apse was the club’s shower room. It was located at the back of everything and required passing through three security points and having had both your wallet and your blood checked before gaining access. For the show to be taking place there, it pretty much guaranteed that there would be blood, come, or both during the course of things. None of the regular subs took part in blood play, and only Danny was usually up for come play, which meant he was _finally_ getting somewhere.

“I’ll be there.” Kali nodded and wandered away, heading towards a woman that Stiles had seen more than once with a crying sub. He wondered if the crying was something the sub enjoyed. If the look on the Dominatrix’s face when Kali held out the little green bracelet to her meant anything, the sub probably didn’t like it as much as her mistress did.

He stood there for a minute or two, mind racing, lost in thought, only to suddenly realize he was no longer alone. Peter Hale, the proverbial bad penny, had turned up again and was standing beside him, a contemplative look on his face. He gave his wrist a little shake and Stiles noticed that he, too, was wearing a green bracelet. Wonderful.

“Didn’t think you were into impact, old man,” he said, hoping to drive the wolf away with pure assholitude.

Peter hummed. “You must not have been paying attention, then. Your skills make quite an _impression_.”

Stiles couldn’t help the laugh that burst out. “Oh my God, you have jokes! Amazing.”

The wolf preened a little. He supposed everyone liked a little praise now and then.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he was smirking, now. “I would never stoop to puns. Whips and canes, of course, but puns are simply too cruel.”

Stiles almost wished he could have met Peter some other time. Like before he met the man’s nephew because he could never separate the two now. 

“Occasional cruelty is a gift,” he said, quoting one of the BDSM books he’d inhaled when he first got the assignment. Peter smirked a little more.

“And _I am_ a gift,” he said, and Stiles shook his head. Tyler wouldn’t play that game. He sneered a little instead.

“Did you come with a receipt? Can I return you? You are definitely not my style.” He looked away from the wolf and prayed the man wouldn’t call out the lie. It wasn’t his fault that he thought the wolf was sexy.

He wasn’t that lucky.

“Something tells me that isn’t entirely accurate,” the older man sounded more than a little curious now, “but, as flattering as the sentiment might be, I’m not looking for a playmate.”

Stiles blushed, but _Tyler_ pushed. “Oh, I don’t _play_ , old man, but as pretty as you’d be on your knees, strugglefucking isn’t my bag. Too much work. No, I want someone who’ll hit the ground in a nanosecond when I snap my fingers, someone who wants their pretty skin marked, and I don’t think that’s in the cards with you. No offense—you look like you’d put up a fight, and that would just be _exhausting_.” He leaned back from the wolf, the glitter in his blue eyes was still compelling but less considering, so Stiles figured he’d at least redirected the older man’s attention successfully. “Now, I think our show is about to begin and I want to get a good view.”

He walked away, forcing himself not to look back to see if Peter was following. His lizard brain told him that the predator was still back there, and that was good enough for him.

The Apse was one of the smaller spaces. Half of it was tiled from floor to ceiling in black, the other half in white, and there was a row of drains demarking the observation area from the play area. He’d only been in twice, once for an actual shower show with bubbles and everything, and once… well, the second visit was more than he’d been prepared for, honestly. He understood why half the room was tiled in white, though. Blood practically glowed against it. It was normally fairly empty. Not tonight.

Three people were already kneeling. One was clearly female, one clearly male, and one unknown, curled up on their side and mummified in latex so there was no indication of sex.

Stiles watched the show, the three Doms taking the subs apart piece by piece—literally when it came to the young man in the middle whose Dom clearly preferred knives over any other kind of play. The noises echoed off the tiles, breathless cries and broken promises to _do anything, please, just stop, let me come, please._ The woman’s eyes were wide, her pupils blown, and he suspected that she was drugged. Her Dom called her kitten, and she meowed and begged for her _milk_ , sucking the cocks in front of her like she was starving. The young man in the middle was more focused, eyes tracking the people around him, but there was a low-level fear in them that made Stiles’s hands clench. He begged and cried, and if the interplay had been more balanced it might have been beautiful, but he flinched away from the hand wielding the knife and wailed to the people watching, “Make him stop! Why won’t you make him stop?” and instead of being beautiful, it made Stiles want to puke.

The last sub, though, was a completely different experience. There was something peaceful about him, and now that his Dom had him stretched out on his back there was clearly a dick in the picture, and Stiles couldn’t pull his eyes away. The sub was aroused enough that his erection pressed against the latex, the outline drawing everyone’s attention to the v of his groin, and light strikes of a flexible crop struck the outsides of his thighs and across his jutting hipbones as his Dom slowly worked him over.

After a while, the latex was unzipped, and a mop of blond curls appeared. The Dom leaned in and grabbed a handful of them, pulling his face back so the crowd could see him. “This is my boy Isaac,” he said, jerking hard, “isn’t he pretty?”

The combination of praise and pain did something to the man, and he groaned only to get a hard swat across the side of the leg. “Silence, Isaac. You know the rules.”

Blond curls bobbed in assent, and there was no more noise. Through the removal of the latex. Through a thorough whipping. Through everything the Dom did, the blond was silent. His eyes were wide and glazed, only occasionally taking in the fact that there were people watching him, never acknowledging anyone but his Dom, and barely that. He just… took it. Like it was the only thing in the world that was real or reliable, and even though it was terrible, it was better than the alternative. 

Stiles was tempted to stop the show right then and arrest everyone involved, but that wouldn’t have solved the larger problem. He had to wait, as much as he hated it, he had to wait and take the next steps so that he could prevent this from happening to anyone else.

He walked over to Isaac and stood over him, looking at the Dom. He’d been introduced as Master Matthew.

“Can I touch him?” He bared his teeth in a fair facsimile of a smile, and Master Matthew nodded. “Good, but here’s the thing. I want to hear him.”

The Dom looked at him calculatedly before nodding again. “I demand silence from my subs, but he can make noise for you.” He kicked a foot out and caught Isaac on his hip. “You hear that, boy? He wants to hear you, so let him hear you.”

Stiles grabbed the blond’s chin and gave it a jerk, forcing his eyes to focus on his face. “I want your attention on me now, Isaac. No one but me.”

He took his time exploring the sub from neck to navel, pinching pale pink nipples until they were angry and red, clawing over the pale expanse of flank leaving red lines that would sting for days, he even grabbed the crop offered to him by Master Matthew and whipped up and down Isaac’s long legs, and every touch, every strike, every infinitesimal contact dragged another sound from the blond. Whines and mewls and whimpers and finally, almost too quiet to hear, was a _pleasepleasepleaseplease_.

Stiles leaned in and pressed a vicious kiss on the begging mouth, biting the sub’s lower lip and pulling on it hard before pushing him away and laying an open-handed blow across his face. “No.”

He handed the crop back to Master Matthew and turned away, pushing past the others who’d been watching him take Isaac apart, and then walking out of the showdown. He stalked down the hall, long legs eating up the distance, until he got to the private rooms where he used his personal fucking key to let him into his personal fucking room where he could have a personal fucking meltdown.

His face was flushed, and his hands were shaking. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in the tips of his ears, and he knew that if he didn’t punch something or throw something, he’d probably break down in tears instead.

 _Fuck_ , he hated this! Hated having to hurt someone when he was trying to help. Hated giving the other sick bastards a show. Hated feeling so conflicted about things that he could even see the _potential_ for something amazing in the grotesque show of subservience they’d put on tonight. When Isaac had begged, begged _him_ he’d wanted to reach down and stroke the blond’s pretty cock until he came all over himself, until the sounds coming from him weren’t the whimpers of a broken boy but were the sounds of overwhelmed satisfaction, pleasure given to him by someone he trusted instead of some abusive bastard that didn’t value him.

He tossed the room, upending chairs and knocking water bottles and lube packets onto the floor. He threw the pillows and dumped the blankets and screamed at the top of his lungs, thankful for the small favor of soundproofed rooms.

He knew there were cameras. Knew his tantrum was probably being watched by Kali or one of the twins, but he figured it wouldn’t be totally out of character for Tyler Wójcik to lose it over something he wanted. When he finally had himself back under control, he headed into the small connected bathroom to splash some water on his face. He pulled his shirt off, the black mesh clinging to him, and a tiny piece of paper fluttered from his waistband to the floor.

He looked down at it, knowing it hadn’t been there when he started the night. 

_Airport Marriott. MM and I, 1276. MD and K, 1278, MT and M, 1280. Tchaikovsky_

Stiles carefully finished splashing his face and dried off. He “accidentally” knocked his shirt off the vanity to where it fell over the slip of paper and picked the strip up with the fabric in one motion. A little wriggling and he was redressed, the paper back in the waistband of his leather pants. His heart was pounding again, but no longer from his anger at the scene, but from a combination of panic and excitement.

He’d been made. The FBI’s informant had gone by Tchaikovsky, and the note either meant that they were good enough to clock an undercover agent, that the office had passed his identity along without telling him, or that someone else knew about both the informant _and_ the FBI’s involvement and was setting him up. Thinking back over the evening didn’t clear things up at all. He’d been touched by several people, including Kali, so he couldn’t narrow down who’d stuck the paper in his pants. It didn’t really matter; it was a lead and he would follow up on it. He just wished he knew how much paranoia to embrace.

He decided that “all of it” sounded like a plan.

Pushing back out into the crowd he made his way back towards the Apse. He had to make himself seen. He had to _make_ a scene.

The show had drawn to a close, the Doms now providing aftercare which was basically bandages for the bleeding, water, and a lot of strangers rubbing the subs to “soothe” them, and _Tyler_ shouldered two people away from Master Matthew and Isaac until he was their sole focus.

“Do you do private shows?” He made no concessions to etiquette. “Kali has my contact info, but I’d like to arrange one as soon as possible. Tomorrow.”

Master Matthew cocked an eyebrow at him. The man was on the slim side, rangy rather than buff, but he was fit enough that Stiles knew he wouldn’t be a pushover in a fight. Stiles didn’t mind that idea at all. He’d love to give the bastard a good ass-kicking; it was always better when the assholes resisted.

“Tomorrow is out of the question,” the Dom was matter of fact about it. “After a show like this it takes at least a week for my boy to recover.”

It was reasonable enough, but Tyler wasn’t a reasonable man. “I’ll pay. Handsomely. Just name a price.”

Matthew shook his head, “Listen, I appreciate the interest, and I’ll get Mistress Kali to give me your information. I don’t normally do private shows, but I’m sure we can make some accommodation…”

Tyler stepped into the smaller man and shoved at his shoulder. One of the monitors was heading their way, so he needed to make it good.

“I don’t want accommodation,” he gritted the words out and stepped to the left enough that he could reach the sub. He gripped the kneeling man’s shoulder, kneading the muscle there hard enough to hurt. It pulled a whispering whine from him, and Stiles felt his stomach tighten. “All I want, is for you to come to my apartment. Surely that isn’t too much to ask. Is it, Isaac? You’d like it, wouldn’t you? You want to let me hear you again, don’t you?”

The blond lurched away from his hand, pressing back against his Dom’s leg, and the sounds stopped.

“Mr. Wójcik,” the monitor had reached them. He was a big man, burly in the classic leather daddy style, and he used his size to his advantage. “Would you please step away from our guests?”

Tyler Wójcik didn’t like that. “I don’t please. I haven’t done anything that wasn’t specifically allowed during the show.”

The monitor wasn’t impressed, “The show is now over. The sub is distressed, and you are contributing to that distress. If you don’t step away, I will step you away. Are we clear?”

Stiles let himself puff up a little. “I’d like to see you try, leather boy.” He bared his teeth and the monitor grimaced at the insult.

“Okay, we’re done here.” The monitor pressed something by his ear and Stiles realized he was wearing a bluetooth earpiece. Suddenly, two more bouncers appeared and Tyler Wójcik was seriously outnumbered and outgunned. He stepped back, hands up.

“Fine. Fine.” He glared, eyes skating over the crowd. He reached into his back pocket pulling out a slim wallet that only held bills and business cards. Flashing the cash was another insult—you didn’t tip the show—but he only pulled out a card. Without a phone to exchange info, the printed cards were a common way of staying in contact with someone from the club if you wanted to continue your games in the real world. He held the card out to the monitor who took it, looking it over to make sure there wasn’t anything there that crossed the club’s rules. “Please. Just pass it along for me. I was,” he struggled over the words, not wanting to give himself away to any unidentified wolves in the crowd, “ _moved_ by the show. I won’t press, but I would very much like to see Master Matthew and his boy again.”

He couldn’t wait to see _Master Matthew_ bound and restrained, but that wasn’t something anyone else needed to know. Yet.

The monitor accepted his acquiescence, if grudgingly, and passed the card along for him. “There. Now, please make your way to the Nave. Your evening in the playrooms has come to an end.”

Tyler opened his mouth to argue but the monitor simply raised a hand and he let his shoulders sag. “Three days, Mr. Wójcik. Consider it a cooling down period.”

The cool down was strike two. Stiles fought down a bitter grin. It didn’t matter. He’d gotten what he needed and now it was time to get out.

He stopped at the bar and left his keys, dropping an obscene amount of cash along with them in a silent apology for his behavior, and strode out the door. The valet had clearly been warned he was coming because he’d already brought his car around, and he climbed into the low-slung sports car and pulled out, fast enough that it was clear that he was still worked up, but not dangerously so.

He headed for the penthouse apartment leased to Tyler Wójcik, plans spinning out in his head. He had to contact his boss, pick up his gear, shed the snakeskin he’d been wearing for the past six months, and get Stiles Stilinski back before heading over to the airport Marriott. 

So much to do—and finally time to do it.

***

“He won’t talk to anyone but you, Agent Stilinski,” the psychiatrist steepled his fingers and sighed. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, but he still just keeps writing the same note and then refusing to respond.”

The note read, “Where is he?” Isaac had written it forty-seven times. Today was the first time Stiles was being allowed to respond.

The bust had gone fairly smoothly. The field office had sent four agents plus Stiles. They’d put someone on each room and had someone watching the exits to make sure no one slipped past. 

Stiles took the room with Master Matthew and Isaac. The look of surprise on the Dom’s face was more than enough of a reward, but Isaac’s panic and doubt would haunt him, he knew. They'd freed the three runaways and come away with laptops, phones, bank records, and more that would lead them to the bigger fish before they could start again.

The strangest part had been finding Peter Hale in the hotel lobby, eyes sharply trained on the events unfolding, watching with the air of someone prepared to step in if needed. He’d lurked until he was satisfied with the outcome, giving Stiles a satisfied smirk and nod when he finally watched him frog-march Master Matthew and the other Doms out the door and into the waiting cars. Apparently, he was Tchaikovsky. Maybe the shared first name should have given him away, but Stiles would never have tagged the man as his Good Samaritan, and the fact that the wolf had clocked him from the beginning was a bitter pill to swallow. He had to wonder if Derek had told his uncle who to expect, but he doubted it. Black sheep of the Hale family his ass. Kinky fuckers, all of them, but it was clear that they had a code they adhered to, and that was better than most people.

“He’s been moved into the long-term care ward. The other two victims that were brought in with him informed us that none of the subs were allowed to spend time together, so they didn’t have any insights into Isaac’s background, or friendships to help us bring him out of his shell. You are our best hope at this point. Are you willing to try to help? I know this is outside your remit, but we would greatly appreciate your assistance.”

Stiles shrugged. Of course, he’d try. He’d have hauled the kid out of the club over his shoulder if he’d thought it would help; sitting down and talking was nothing.

They gave him a stack of forms to sign and an ID badge that would allow him access to the private ward along with a panic button. He wasn’t sure whether it was for him or for Isaac, but either way, he was prepared.

He knocked on the door before opening it. Even if he knew he wasn’t going to get get an invitation to come in, he figured it was only polite to warn Isaac that he was about to have company. The blond was sitting at a small table by the window, curls mussed like he’d been running his hands through them, white bandages pale against even whiter skin. He didn’t turn around.

“I heard you’ve been asking about me.” Stiles stepped forward, stopping by the foot of the bed. “So… here I am.”

The boy turned to face him, eyes just as blue as he remembered, and jaw just as sharp. He flew out of his seat and Stiles barely got his arms up in time to catch him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, murmuring into a bony shoulder. “I’m here and we’re going to figure this out. Whatever you need, I’ll try to help.”

A whimper escaped the young man, and then a quiet keen, as he wrapped his long arms around anything he could reach. “You’re real. I didn’t imagine you. Oh my God, you’re _real_.”

Stiles shifted them and until they were leaning against the edge of the bed with Isaac wrapped around him like an octopus, and the words just kept pouring out of him.

“I thought he was hiding somewhere. Thought it was a test. I couldn’t talk to anyone or he’d know. Oh my God, _you’re real, you’re real and he’s gone, and I don’t have to go back_. I’m safe. I’m actually _safe_ _ohmygodohmygodohmygod_ …”

Stiles let him wind down, the words leaking from him like poison from a lanced wound.

Isaac Lahey was nineteen years old and had been owned by the people running the slave ring for almost a year. It had taken them that long to “train” him. He’d been picked up from a homeless shelter after he’d run away from his abusive father. He said that in some ways serving Master Matthew had been easier than dealing with his dad—at least Matthew never pretended to love him.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.” Isaac had exhausted himself, but was hanging onto consciousness, and Stiles, like he was afraid that if he fell asleep, he’d wake up and it’d have all been a dream.

“You’re just supposed to get through today, buddy,” Stiles said, resting his hand on the other man’s back. “The people here are going to help you, and I’ll do whatever I can. All you have to do is just get through today.”

The boy fell asleep in his lap; he wondered how he was going to keep his promise.

***

“Thank you for seeing me, Master Hale.”

The dynamic couldn’t have been different from the last time the two men had been in this room together. Stiles was respectful and mature, and Derek Hale was surprisingly supportive.

“I know you’ve been in regular contact with Isaac over the past few weeks,” the alpha said, “and I have to ask: are you concerned about his treatment? Is that why you’re here?”

Isaac’s first month of freedom had been fairly simple. He’d been injured and was on the borderline of malnourished, so they kept him at the hospital until he was clearly on the mend. Then there was the psychological trauma he’d suffered. He didn’t sleep often and when he did it was riddled with nightmares, his speech patterns were a crazy cross between absolute silence and constant chatter, he dropped to his knees refusing to meet the gaze of anyone new that came into his room, and he was always, _always_ , expecting people to demand sex.

Even taking into account the libido of a typical nineteen-year-old, his behavior was over the top and the psychologists didn’t give him very good odds for ever having a healthy sex life going forward. So, Stiles suggested that maybe what he needed wasn’t a textbook “normal” sex life, but a controlled version of the submissive lifestyle that _he_ now found normal. At first it had garnered odd looks and a refusal to even consider it, but after several attempts to get Isaac to stop kneeling the moment someone came into the room ended in tears and hysteria, they reconsidered. It turned out that Chris Argent, one of the Masters that Stiles had studied under, was not only a Dom, he was a licensed sex therapist. He’d been vetted by the FBI’s doctors, Isaac had agreed to meet with him, and the rest was history. The two men had become almost inseparable. Chris was no nonsense but infinitely patient, and Isaac was blossoming under his care.

“No,” Stiles said, shaking his head, “I’m not here for Isaac.”

Derek watched him from across the table, preternaturally still, and Stiles felt his heartrate speed up a fraction. Being watched by a predator will do that.

“Is there something else that I can do for the FBI, then?” The question was mild but mocking, and Stiles ground his teeth in frustration. This hadn’t been nearly this hard in his head, but of course the Derek Hale in his head wasn’t determined to be an oblivious bastard.

“No,” he said, forcing the words out, “I am not here as an agent of the FBI, either.”

The wolf took that as his cue. He stood and rounded the end of the table until he was within arms reach. He hitched a hip onto the edge of the table and looked down at him. “So, then, Stiles. If you’re not here for Isaac, and you’re not here as an agent of the FBI, why are you here?”

He was going to force him to say it. Of course, he was going to force him to say it. Shit. He tried to control his breathing, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate.

“I’m here,” he started, forcing himself to look Derek in the eye, “because I learned something about myself when I was at Sanctum. I know I didn’t understand what it meant to Dom when I started my training here, but now I think I do.”

Derek leaned back, his hands resting on the tops of his thighs, and Stiles couldn’t help but look at them. He had strong fingers and well-manicured nails that looked nothing like the claws that he knew could appear in an instant, broad palms and wrists thick with tendons that would flex and bow if he were holding someone up… or down.

“So, what?” Grey-green eyes held his, and Stiles would almost swear there was a hint of disappointment in them. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “You want to come back and finish your training so you can be one of the Doms here at The Den?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t want to be a Dom.”

The earlier disappointment might have been wishful thinking, but the flash of red that appeared when he said _that_ wasn’t his imagination. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t as insane a proposition as he’d feared.

It was ironic. He’d spent weeks convincing Isaac that the submissive tendencies he was struggling with were nothing to be ashamed of and that there was no weakness in submission. He’d explained that it took a strong person to admit that sometimes they didn’t want to be the one in charge and that it didn’t make them a victim or a burden. He’d been so convincing in his arguments that he’d convinced himself. And then the dreams started. He dreamed of kneeling at Derek’s feet, of pushing the Dom until he snapped and flipped him on his back, baring Stiles’s vulnerable belly to the wolf’s teeth. He dreamed of being held down as the alpha fucked him over his desk or the back of a couch or into a mattress, biting his neck and making him beg, keeping him on edge of orgasm until he screamed and cried and begged to be allowed to come. Sometimes Dream Derek let him come and he’d wake up breathless and covered in a cooling mess that made him long for it to have been real.

Stiles had always been attracted to the man; Derek was hot like burning and any self-respecting dick-loving dude would admit that. But he’d never been interested in _Master_ Derek Hale. Now, though, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head. He couldn’t stop the questions spinning through his head--what did Derek want in a sub? Would he even be faintly interested in taking on someone as inexperienced as Stiles? What would it be like to just _submit_ to someone as undeniably powerful as an alpha werewolf? The thoughts were eating his brain, destroying his sleep, and he knew he had to ask the questions even if he was afraid that he would hate the answers, or he would never know peace again.

Derek was watching him, and he knew that both his nerves and his arousal had to be obvious. He’d been half-hard since he’d walked in the room, and his heart was racing, hummingbird fast, beating a tattoo in his chest. 

“No?” He had his head cocked to one side, like he was listening to something only he could hear. “Then what do you want, Stiles?

Suddenly it was too much, the fear of rejection, the uncertainty of submission, the fear… it hit him like a wave. “I don’t know,” he stumbled over the words and Derek frowned.

“You lie,” he tapped Stiles’s chest over his heart. “I can hear it. You’re better at it than most people, but you can’t fool me. Your heart gives you away every time you try to lie to me.”

Sometimes he really hated werewolves.

“Try again.” Derek’s finger still rested lightly on his chest. “What do you want, Stiles?”

He took a steadying breath and looked up into the wolf’s eyes. “I want to kneel for you. Sir.” His mouth was so dry. “If you’d like it. I mean, if you’d let me.”

A slow smile lit Derek’s face, and Stiles shivered at the hint of fang. “I’d let you,” he said, eyes fixed on the pulse in his throat, “and I can guarantee that I’d like it. But I think you’re still lying to me. Or to yourself. So, tell me one more time--what do you want, Stiles?”

The ghost of hot breath against his skin made him shiver in the chair and he clenched his hands, digging his fingers almost painfully into the meat of his thighs so he wouldn’t just reach out and grab. 

“Not lying,” he said, voice wrecked and desperate, “I want it. I do. Want to kneel for you. Want to show you that I can be good for you.”

Derek rumbled, deep in his chest, his hands ghosting over Stiles’s skin. “But that’s not everything, is it baby?” He latched on, sucking hard on the skin between his teeth, and Stiles knew he’d have a dark, mean looking mark for days. “You want me to _make_ you kneel. You want me to prove that I can.”

Something squirmed in Stiles’s gut, heat and frustration and hunger, embarrassed to admit that Derek already knew him better than he knew himself. It _was_ something that he wanted, that he needed, and he snapped at the wolf to make him pay for the forced admission, catching the man’s jaw with the edge of his teeth.

“Fine,” he growled back, tired of being played with, “you’re right. I want you to make me. I want you to _make me_ kneel, if you can. I can take it. I _want_ to take it.” He choked on the words.

“Oh baby,” Derek said, eyes glinting with satisfaction at having pushed him to his breaking point, “I’ll be the one that decides what you can take, and _if_ you get to take it.”

Stiles recognized his mistake immediately. “I’m sorry, Sir. I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do…”

The alpha snorted, “Of course you were, but that’s okay this time, baby. We’re going to get these things out in the open. You’re going to tell me all the things you want me to do to you, tell me every fantasy, every dream, every thought you’ve ever had about me, and then I’m going to give you _my_ rules, and if you agree, _then_ I’ll make you kneel and I’ll make you mine. Do you want to be mine? Wolves don’t share, Stiles, so be sure.”

He licked a broad stripe up the side of Stiles’s neck, pressing the tip of his tongue against the new bruise, and then nipping at his earlobe sending little shockwaves through his nervous system.

Stiles could hardly believe this was happening, but he pushed himself until he found his voice. “Yes, sir, I’m sure.”

Derek pulled him to his feet and wrapped him in a full body embrace, pressing his face against Stiles’s jaw. “The minute you walked into this club I knew I was either going to kick your ass or fuck you senseless. Your scent drove me mad. My wolf wanted to pin you and mark you. to _keep_ you, but you were so Goddamned stubborn. You wouldn’t admit what you needed, what you wanted. Peter told me…”

That pulled Stiles out of his hormonal haze and back to consciousness. He’d wondered what Peter thought of him. “What did he tell you?”

Derek shook his head. “Told me that if I didn’t claim you, someone smarter would. Said you’d make a beautiful wolf. Said he loved the way you smelled when you were watching someone get flogged, that you smelled like lightning and honey, and I knew exactly what he meant because I’d smelled it on you here. I wanted to whip you until your skin glowed and then fuck you senseless. Wanted to roll in your scent until I couldn’t tell where you ended and I began.”

He growled and nipped at Stiles’s neck again, leaving another purpling mark throbbing under his teeth. “I told him I’d kill him if he touched you. Made me crazy to think of him near you, scenting you, watching you get hard as you walked around Sanctum playing at dominating people when what you really needed was a Dom of your own.”

Stiles trembled a little at the possessive certainty in Derek’s voice. “And do I have that now? A Dom of my own?”

Derek rested their foreheads together and nodded. “I shouldn’t make promises until we’ve gone over contracts and limits, until we can both say what we’re looking for in a partner, but I can’t imagine my wolf letting you go now. You’ve got me, if you want me.”

Stiles let out a relieved sigh. “And you’ve got me. I was afraid you wouldn’t want someone as--”

“Bratty?” Derek interrupted, and Stiles huffed.

“As _inexperienced_ as I am. As a sub.” He ducked his head a little, but Derek wasn’t going to let him hide.

“Every time a Dom takes a sub it’s a new experience, plus, it means I don’t have to break you of another Dom’s bad habits.”

Stiles scoffed, “No, you just have to deal with _my_ habits.”

“Of course,” his Dom gave him a darkly suggestive smile and he shivered, “that’s half the fun.”


	4. Paying the Piper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely earns the rating. Hope you all have enjoyed the ride, and thanks for reading!

Three. Fucking. Weeks.

It hadn’t even been three weeks. It had been eighteen days. Eighteen days, and Stiles was ready to strangle a certain werewolf with the bastard’s own Brioni tie, but if he’d learned anything during his time with the FBI, it was that sometimes direct confrontation wasn’t the best choice. He had to do something, though, or he was going to go crazy.

He pushed the door open, letting the noise of the gym wash over him, and approached the front desk.

A tough looking woman about his age gave him a long look before addressing him. “You are not a member.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I’m not,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and fishing out a business card, “but I would like to be.”

The card belonged to a Berserker that owed Stiles a favor. Magnus had managed to get himself on an FBI watchlist, and once Stiles had recognized that the guy was supernatural, he’d done what he could to defuse the situation. The bear had been both relieved and grateful that he wasn’t going to have to call his family for backup, knowing they’d use the situation to force him to come back to the pack territory and abandon the life he’d carved out for himself in California, and he’d told Stiles that if there was ever anything he could do for him, not to hesitate to call. Vouching for the human at a shifter gym wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind, but when Stiles called he’d agreed without argument, just warning him to keep his head down and not to start any trouble, because the owners of this kind of gym simply let the members “handle their own differences,” which Stiles took to mean “let the members beat each other to a pulp until dominance has been suitably asserted.”

The woman took the card and shook her head, obviously thinking he was crazy. “One-month trial. Hundred and fifty bucks. Take it or leave it.”

Stiles slid two hundred-dollar bills across the counter without blinking. “I’ll take it.”

The woman made change and pulled out some forms—apparently even supernaturals had to sign waivers when they joined a gym—which she shoved across the counter at him.

“Tempers run high around here sometimes, especially around the full moon. You get one pass for being a newbie. After that, if you can’t get along with the other members, you’re out.” She looked at him seriously. “Do you understand?”

Stiles dropped his head to one side and bared his neck a fraction. He had no beef with her. “I do.” 

She let out a half-surprised chuff at his willing submission. He guessed she didn’t get that from humans often. “Maybe you do. Okay, Mister,” she glanced down at the paperwork he handed back, “ _Stilinski_. Here you go.” She handed him a towel and a key. “Men’s lockers and showers are in the back on the left. If you’re caught with a camera out on the floor it will be,” she gave him a pointed look, “ _confiscated_. If you have any questions or problems, feel free to ask. Enjoy your workout.”

Stiles nodded his thanks and picked up his gym bag and towel, heading in the direction of the locker rooms. He scanned the area as he passed. It wasn’t a huge place. Free weights and squat racks lined one wall next to half a dozen treadmills. He saw three heavy punching bags and two speed bags next to a raised boxing ring where two astonishingly large men were beating the shit out of each other. There were at least two rooms off the main area on the far side and he looked through one of the doors to see a half-dozen people on yoga mats, and finally there was a padded floor for sparring or tumbling practice.

That was what he’d been looking for.

Stiles wasn’t above using some of his FBI resources outside his purview if he thought the situation called for it, and the situation with Derek definitely called for it. The man had pushed every one of Stiles’s buttons, guided him through days of kink negotiations and Dom/sub contracts, left him panting and hard more times than he wanted to admit, and had then simply _stopped_. For three. Fucking. Weeks.

At first Stiles had thought the wolf was simply giving him a little breathing room, taking it easy on him, giving him time to accept his new rôle. Then he thought, oh things must be busy at the club. Work happened to everyone, right? So, Stiles spent his own days at work finishing the paperwork on the Sanctum case and his evenings at The Den. But even with Derek right there, it was like he was being held in limbo. He was given a perfunctory kiss or a scruff of the neck in greeting, and then… nothing. So, he waited. He made an effort to get to know Isaac better, and made nice with Mistress Lydia. Erica laughed at him every time he whined about how hard it was to be patient, but he’d been _so_ patient. Now… Stiles was out of patience.

It wasn’t hard to find out that Derek had invested in this gym, or that he worked out here several days a week. It was even easier to access the gym’s membership files—They really ought to be more careful. Hunters would kill for a list like theirs. Literally.—and so, not only did he know that Derek was a member, he’d gotten the wolf’s locker number. Easy peasy.

Now, a gym locker location wouldn’t be prime information for most people, but for Stiles, it was precisely the back door he needed. All he needed now was a few minutes alone and he could finish step two of mission: pay attention to Stiles.

If Derek stuck to his regular schedule, he should be in to work out around four. That gave Stiles three hours. He just hoped that the cleaning staff of the gym wasn’t hypervigilant, or all his planning would be for nothing. 

He headed to a treadmill and pushed through a fast warm up. He’d dressed for the occasion wearing two t-shirts and a pair of heavy jogging pants, and three miles later and he was sweating like a pig. He pushed another mile before deciding to grab a speed rope and jump for ten minutes just to put the icing on the pheromone cake, and then headed to the locker room.

He'd thought about asking someone to go a few rounds in the ring with him because that kind of stress cranked out a special kind of pungency, but he didn’t want to smell like fear or anger, he just wanted to smell like a really ramped up version of himself. Plus sex. Lots of sex.

Stiles had thought long and hard—ha, _hard_ —about how to get Derek’s attention, and he concluded that he didn’t want to get in the man’s face so much as get under his skin. He knew Derek found him attractive, that wasn’t the concern. This whole production was just to… remind him what he was missing. For werewolves, the sense of smell was almost more important than sight. They used it to gauge the moods of the people around them, to tell if someone was sick or stressed, if they were happy, or if they were horny. 

Stiles was very, very horny.

See, one of the things that he and Derek had discussed during their marathon kink negotiations was orgasm control. Derek apparently considered it a hard limit. He would decide how, when, or if, Stiles got to come. It was assumed that there would be a learning curve, and if he needed help controlling himself, he’d been promised 'help,' although honestly the discussion of cock cages and rings felt more like a threat than something to be grateful for. So, laboring under the now-known misapprehension that they’d be getting to the good stuff soon, Stiles had stopped getting off on his own. No jacking it in the shower or lazy Saturday morning wanks. Nothing. For three. Fucking. Weeks. He hadn’t gone this long without an orgasm since he hit puberty, and it was going to end today whether his absentee Dom was involved or not.

The locker room was mostly empty, and Stiles nodded to himself. He’d watched the comings and goings for the past few days and had noticed that from after lunchtime until the end of business was the slowest time, which worked perfectly. He found a shower stall and stripped, setting his clothes carefully to the side. It wouldn’t do to wash away all his hard work too soon. A quick sluice of water and a squirt of unscented shower gel prepared the way, and he let himself wander, hand hot and tight around his quickly stiffening dick, the slick of the soap giving him just enough lubrication that he wasn’t going to chafe anything.

Stiles thought about Derek—the broad palms that pressed hotly into his skin, the slightly uneven teeth that felt so good against the side of his neck—and he groaned. He wanted those hands. Wanted to feel the sting of them on his skin, reddening the cheeks of his ass. He wanted those teeth buried in the meat of his shoulder, holding him in place, harder and harder until they left marks that wouldn’t fade for days. He wanted that big body pressed against him in an unforgiving line, holding him up, or holding him down, and more than anything he wanted those eyes on him. He wanted to see them hot and glittering, wanted them to watch him come apart.

His orgasm bore down on him like a freight train; anyone walking by would be able to tell what he was doing simply by listening to him gasp and wheeze, his breath short and fast in the steam. He stepped into the spray and washed the soap away and then backed up and finished himself off with one. Two. Three strokes. Come arced out of him and he scrabbled to catch as much of it as he could, holding the hot slick in his cupped hand as the shock wave of pleasure rolled through him.

Legs weak, he held his prize out of the path of the water as he haphazardly finished washing and then shuffled back to the shelf where he’d left his clothes. He pressed the now cool come into the fabric of the shirt that had been closest to his skin, smearing the shine across the front with a grin. He dressed quickly in clean clothes, bundling the others under his arm carefully as he made his way to the lockers. He bypassed his own for now, walking straight to number 12, Derek’s locker, where he wiped his disgusting biohazard of a shirt on the door, paying close attention to the lock, making sure to get his come all over it. When Derek unlocked it, he’d get the scent all over his hands, he’d smell it on the door, the air movement of opening it would waft the smell all over the locker room. 

He wished he could see the reaction. That, however, wasn’t in the plan. He hurried back to his own locker and stashed his worn clothes inside, mentally apologizing to the other shifters who would encounter the overwhelming odor. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn’t need them after tonight, and he’d come back tomorrow and clean everything up. 

The game was afoot. He just hoped he’d chosen the right gambit.

***

It wasn’t the right gambit.

Stiles had prepped especially carefully for his evening at The Den. He’d even put in for a couple of days of vacation in the hopes that after pushing Derek into a response that they’d be pleasantly occupied for the evening, and maybe, just maybe, he’d need a little recovery time.

The only thing he needed to recover from, though, was disappointment.

“What did you do, Stiles?”

Mistress Lydia was less of a bitch these days, but something about the air around her screamed “approach at your own risk” that evening. She was standing over him, her painfully high heels raising her enough that her head was _just_ higher than his when he was sitting, but the sensation of being looked down upon was undeniable.

“The answer to that question is myriad and potentially embarrassing, so I refuse to answer on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. Why do you ask?” Stiles shifted on the leather couch, his skin sticking to it uncomfortably, and frowned. He wasn’t pouting. He wasn’t.

“You stink of frustration and you haven’t moved from that spot for an hour, even though I know you saw Erica wandering around earlier. Clearly something is wrong. You’ve been glancing at the door all evening, frozen in indecision as to what to do next. If you were anyone else, I’d say you were nervously expecting a punishment, but since I know Master Derek is out of town this evening, and I know you haven’t been in negotiations with anyone else, I can’t imagine what it could be. Work problems?”

Stiles froze at the words “out of town.” Derek hadn’t said anything to him about going out of town. Fuck. He scrubbed a hand over his face. That wasn’t at all something he’d expected. Surely, he merited at least a heads-up that the wolf was going away. But, maybe the problem was that he didn’t actually matter to the other man. That would explain a lot. It would also hurt

“No,” he said, swallowing the lump that had taken up residence in his throat and trying not to feel abandoned. “Work’s fine. Have some downtime coming, actually. Can’t decide what to do with it. Think I might need a break. Might head out to the beach. Clear my head a little.”

Lydia cocked her head to one side. “You’re not lying, but you’re obviously lying. I thought FBI agents would be better trained than that.”

 _Better trained_. The words grated and Stiles frowned at her. “Sorry, Mistress Lydia. I guess I’m just impossible to train. I’m sure _they_ tried, at least.”

A slow smirk spread across her face, like a mystery had just become clear, and Stiles could feel a flush creep up his chest. “I see. Well, in that case I’ll leave you alone to stew in your…” she raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, “ _intransigence_. I have to say, though, it isn’t your best quality.”

Stiles spent the rest of the night sitting there watching the other club members. Not pouting.

***

He frowned at his phone as he paid the uber driver and tipped him extra because the man hadn't commented on his clothes, or lack thereof. He didn’t think he was imagining it, though, when the guy peeled out like he couldn’t get away fast enough. Maybe he thought Stiles was going to grab him and fuck him against a wall or something.

A man should be so lucky.

The evening had dragged on forever, but he’d been too stubborn to throw in the towel and call it a night. He had, however, peeled himself from the Couch of Disappointment and make a few circuits of the place, stopping to watch as Boyd paddled Erica for _her_ intransigence, and Stiles couldn’t help but think that Lydia was lying, because on the blonde brat the sheer stubbornness was very appealing.

Maybe he just lacked that appeal. Maybe Derek had decided that he was too much effort for too little return. He’d seemed interested enough, sipping coffee and watching Stiles fill out kink questionnaires that had him blushing just at the thought of some of the things listed. Still, it didn’t matter why the man wasn't interested, just that he wasn't.

He pushed his door open and walked into the dark foyer, pausing for an instant. He always left the lamp—

_*THUMP*_

A big body, hard and hot, pinned him against the door he’d just closed. Stiles froze for a second, FBI training kicking in as he attempted to evaluate the threat. Then he heard the rumble, deep in the chest behind him, and he shivered, equal parts relief and uneasiness. _Derek_.

Well fuck.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he ground out. His face was pressed tightly against the wood, jaw barely free to move, but it took more than that to shut him up. “Thought you were out of town.”

Derek’s eyes flashed red in the darkness and Stiles’s heart gave an erratic beat. “Oh really?” The heat in the alpha’s voice burned him. “And here I thought you’d sent me an engraved invitation to come see you this evening.”

He shoved a wad of fabric into Stiles’s face. It was his t-shirt, still rank and crusty from his outing that afternoon. The t-shirt he’d left in his locker. Secured with a padlock.

“I don’t see how that’s an invitation. I left that in the bottom of my locker. How did you end up with it?”

Stiles bucked against Derek’s hold, but the wolf didn’t give an inch. He felt one hand against his spine, the sharp tips of claws pricking his skin, while the other wrapped around his throat from behind, squeezing tightly enough that he could hear his breath as he struggled against the preternaturally strong grip.

“You say it wasn’t an invitation, so what was it? A challenge?” The words were snarled through too sharp teeth. “A dare? A fucking ultimatum?” Derek rolled his hips against Stiles’s ass, the ridge of his cock hot and insistent, pulling a groan from somewhere deep in the younger man’s gut.

“You have no idea what you did, though. I could smell you the minute I walked in the door, and do you know what I found?” He nipped at the soft skin under Stiles’s ear roughly, almost drawing blood. “I found three shifters in the locker room getting off on the scent of something that was mine. _Mine_. I told you wolves don’t share, Stiles, and yet you spread yourself all over that room, a come-scented neon sign saying _fuck me_ , to anyone with a sense of smell.”

The unfairness of that statement cut through the lust fogging his brain and he snorted. “Wolves don’t share? Less of a wolf and more of a dog in the manger. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me? Look, I just wanted to remind you what you were missing. Not my fault if someone else wants what you don't.”

That earned him another bite, this one lower and deeper and meaner, the meat of his shoulder pinched tight between Derek’s teeth, the blood trapped and throbbing angrily under the surface. Stiles could feel the pressure building in it, the pain blooming into something blindingly bright that sent sparks chasing through him like a live wire. Derek held him like that for a long count—one, two, three—and when Stiles finally whined and twisted in his teeth, he shook him for good measure before releasing the abused flesh, laving over it with a hot lick.

“You think I don’t want you?” The words dripped from his mouth, liquid and shapeless as he rolled his hips again, grinding them together. “I was just waiting for you, baby. I wanted you to come to me. To beg for me, to ask for what you wanted the way a sweet boy should. It was almost more than my wolf could stand, seeing you so hungry. Watching you shift in your skin when you saw me. But I should have known better. You aren’t a good boy, you’re just a brat that demands attention. I should have taken you over my knee that first night and spanked your ass until it glowed. I should have given into my impulses, should have left you crying, cock aching, put you in a pretty little cage because I can’t trust you not to touch. What's. MINE.”

He pulled Stiles back from the door and spun him around, slamming him back again faster than the human could blink. “So... you wanted my attention; you’ve got it. You should be careful what you wish for, though. You might not like what you get.”

Stiles strangled a hysterical laugh. “You have got to be kidding. This is supposed to be my punishment, _Sir_?” He was shaking under Derek’s unforgiving grip, heart racing with excitement. Finally, finally, _finally_. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is kind of what I’ve been asking for, for like… forever.”

Derek leaned back into him, his body an uninterrupted bar of heat against him, and snarled in his face, “Not asking. _Demanding_. You’ve been demanding this, and now you’re going to learn that you don’t get what you want by being a demanding little shit. Now strip.”

He stepped back and Stiles stumbled a little from the sudden loss of support, but he found his feet quickly. He wasn’t wearing much—he’d dressed for expediency when he’d gotten ready earlier—and it only took a moment to ditch them, leaving nothing but a slightly darker pile on the already dark floor.

Derek watched, eyes flaring red, and nodded once, a half-hearted approval. “So, you _can_ take direction if you want to. Good to know.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “FBI agent, remember? Kind of had to be able to follow directions to get this far.”

The wolf wasn’t impressed. “What I _remember_ is the first class you attended at The Den where you interrupted the instructor and joked that _rules were made to be broken_.”

The big man moved faster than someone that size had any right to, and suddenly Stiles was arched painfully with his arm twisted behind his back. Derek’s fingers were a vise around his wrist, and he knew there was very little chance of getting out of the hold. 

“ _My_ rules are not for breaking,” he said, breath hot on Stiles’s ear, “but you? You’re meant to be broken, baby, and before tonight is over, you’re going to be begging me to do it.”

Images of the kink list he’d negotiated—edging, orgasm denial, painplay, sensory deprivation—flashed through his head and he felt his breath catch in his chest, a bolt of panic shooting through him. Was this what he wanted? Really? Could he do this?

The wolf sensed his distress and paused easing the twist on Stiles’s arm a little, “Color?”

The simple question gave him his control back, and he sucked in a grateful breath as he turned enough to make eye contact. “Green.”

There was a flash of something that looked like approval on Derek’s face, pleased that Stiles had settled, maybe even pleased at the show of trust, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared, implacability in its place.

“Good. Now, move.”

The last time Stiles had been frog-marched down a hallway he’d been undercover as a gang member arrested for selling heroin. He’d ended up in handcuffs. He wondered if that was going to happen tonight as well.

His bed was large enough for comfort, but nothing ostentatious, and since he hadn’t expected to be coming back here tonight, he hadn’t bothered with much more than just straightening the bedding, now it was rumpled and faintly lit from the streetlight outside his window, the sheets twisted and tossed to one side, a darker spot visible that could only be one thing.

“I was surprised when I got here,” Derek spoke directly into his ear, triggering ripples of shivers across his skin, “I expected your bed to smell like the shirt you left me. Sweat and come and desperation. Haven’t you pulled that pretty cock of yours lately? Or are you strictly a shower guy?”

Stiles didn’t answer immediately and paid for the delay, his arm twisted back up until it was painful.

“Haven’t,” he said, swallowing once to wet his dry mouth, “lately. Been waiting.”

“Waiting?” Derek nosed along the arch of his neck. “Waiting for what?”

The wolf slid his free hand around Stiles’s waist, ghosting his fingers along the fine trail of hair below his navel. The feeling almost tickled and almost burned.

“You.”

Derek gave him a push, tripping him with a foot and tumbling him onto the bed and the cold slick spot in the middle of it.

“You should have been here earlier, then,” he said, looking down where Stiles sprawled. “Maybe I’d have let you touch my cock. Stroke me until I came all over you. Since you weren’t here, though, I just did it myself. Wrapped myself in your sheets and imagined you under me as I fucked your ass. Thought I’d leave you the same kind of love letter you left me. Seemed fitting.”

The cold, wet spot beneath him shocked his overheated skin. It was fresh enough to still be slick, and he felt it smear as he hit the sheet. He could only imagine what it smelled like to the werewolf—Stiles’s scent mixed with his, Derek’s come an invisible paint marking along his hip and leg. He looked over at the other man and smirked and purposefully rolled in it, spreading it everywhere it could reach.

“I see you’ve got the idea,” he said, his own smirk firmly in place as he . “By the end of tonight no shifter will be able to tell where you end, and I begin. You’ll be fucked. Claimed. Marked so clearly that no one in heaven or hell will question who you belong to.” He pointed. “On your knees.”

Stiles rolled to his knees in the middle of the bed, and Derek scowled until he moved closer to the edge, standing there, looming over him in the dimly lit room. His cock was hard, already aching, and he could hear his own ragged breathing in the quiet room.

Derek reached out, fingers gentle for once. He traced along Stiles’s jaw, teased his earlobe, and then drew a hot line with his fingertip down the side of his neck, skating around and over the gentle divot under his Adam’s apple. He shouldn’t have been so comfortable with a predator so close to his neck; he knew that wolves were particularly protective of their own, but he trusted this man. So, rather than hunch forward and cower he arched back, baring his fragile hyoid and the pulsing carotid in clear submission.

“So beautiful, so pale and perfect,” Derek said roughly, dragging his fingertip back up again, circling the point where Stiles's neck joined his shoulder, “I’m going to love marking it.” He leaned in and mouthed against the skin, tips of his fangs dragging in a sharp tease, and Stiles shuddered.

“Can’t wait,” he said. “Want your marks. Want you to bite me so hard they could identify you by your fucking dental records.”

Derek laughed darkly and just nipped the skin before pulling back, leaving a stripe of cooling saliva to taunt. “There you go demanding again. You say you can’t wait, but I say you can. I say you _will_.”

“Fuck.” Stiles inched forward, eyes wide and a little desperate. He’d already been waiting so long. He’d been waiting for this for _weeks_. “Please.”

“You can wait for that, too,” the bastard laughed again. “Right now, though, I just want you to feel. Can you do that for me? Can you follow that one simple direction?”

Stiles balked at the challenge. “Yes,” he nodded once, meeting the werewolf's eyes. “Yes, sir, I can.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at the “sir” and Stiles could almost hear the wolf thinking, _We’ll see about that._

During all of this, the man's hands had never stopped moving. They traced and teased, gliding across Stiles’s skin, and leaving what felt like trails of fire in their wake. Nails dragged up the length of his torso, and his skin stung under the scrape, until finally the tips of Derek’s fingers landed on his nipples, twirling the furled nubs and then pinching them hard, not letting up on the pressure until Stiles began to squirm, the pain blooming into an adrenaline high.

“You didn’t mention they were so sensitive. Did you not know, or were you keeping secrets from me?”

Stiles shook his head a little to clear it, unclenching his jaw so he could speak. “Never really thought about them before. Wasn’t keeping secrets.”

Finding the words was hard, his thoughts getting thick and syrupy slow, and he wondered if this was like what neurotypical people felt like all the time. He groaned. “Fuck, that’s better than Adderall.”

Derek hummed. “Good. Focus on the feeling, that spreading pleasure. Let all the noise just fade away.”

And that was what it was like. There were things he couldn’t ignore—Derek’s hands on him were hot and insistent. His cock throbbed and ached between his legs. He could feel himself breathing, short and gaspy, like he’d been running sprints--but all the noise in his head, all the random thoughts, were quieter.

“Touch yourself. I want to see it.”

That was an order Stiles could get behind. He dropped a hand to his aching dick and wrapped his fingers around it tightly, groaning at the sensation. It was too dry, his skin dragging a little uncomfortably, but he could deal. Especially if Derek kept touching him, too.

“Yes,” he whispered, leaning into the fingers on his nipples and whining. “God, yes.”

“You like that?” Derek’s voice was gruff as he mouthed across the planes of his chest, and Stiles nodded, stroking himself a little faster. “You like the feeling of getting yourself off, of deciding how hard, how fast.”

Suddenly there was another hand wrapped around his, forcing his fingers tighter around his cock, and slowing his stroke until he groaned in frustration. “Of course, I like it. Who doesn’t?”

Derek dropped his head and sank his teeth into the muscle above his nipple and Stiles sucked in a gasp at the punishment.

“From now on, you’re not the one in charge of this. I am. Understand?” He squeezed Stiles’s hand into a fist on the upstroke, his thumb rubbing across the head of his cock, smearing the pre-come there, teasing the slit.

“I understand.” He nodded enthusiastically. It felt good, harder than he’d normally grip, and slower, but the foreignness just made it more intense, and he relaxed into Derek’s pace. His stroke was slow, almost languid, and they stayed like that, the pleasure an agonizing build-up that caused the edges of Stiles’s awareness to fuzz, and just when he could finally see the bright edges of his orgasm within reach, Derek stopped. 

“What?” Stiles could barely get the words out, hips spastically thrusting forward in an attempt to force the movement. “No, no, no… don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He knew he was whining but he couldn’t help it, he needed to come. It was there looming on the horizon, big and overwhelming and wonderful, and he wanted it, wanted to chase it, but Derek was holding his hand captive and his orgasm at bay.

The wolf hovered there sharing his breath, so close that Stiles could reach out and grab him with his free hand, pull him into an embrace, to bite him or kiss him, but he knew that the moment he did he’d lose the hand on his cock, lose that shimmering feeling of being pushed towards the edge.

His hand flexed and he could feel the wolf’s eyes on him, waiting to see what he was going to do, but he wanted something more than just his own hand tonight, so he forced himself to stillness and Derek sighed in quiet approval.

“ _Good boy_.”

Stiles threw his head back and groaned again, the words lighting up something inside him he hadn’t known existed. He could do this. He wanted this. He _needed_ this.

“Please, sir,” he shivered from the strain of not moving, his voice wrecked, “please, I need more. I’ll be good for you, but I need more. Please.”

Derek looked at him, eyes glittering in the darkness, and Stiles could see a hint of fang. “You think you deserve more? After the stunt you pulled today?” The hand around his cock tightened again, a promise and a threat, and the younger man shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice level, “don’t deserve it. But I need it. Please.”

He shimmied his hips a little, his cock still achingly hard in their joint grasp, and waited. 

The wolf leaned in close, his murmur dark and indecent. “Nice try, but I’m not going to let you come like this.”

Stiles felt like he could cry.

Derek released his death grip on Stiles’s dick and stroked languidly along the dimples in his hips and down along the outside of his legs. “Time for a change, baby.”

In a split second, the wolf had lifted him off his knees and flipped him face down on the bed, pinning his body with two hundred pounds of rutting werewolf and a big hand fisted in the back of his hair. “Yes, that’s better. Now, I think you’re going to like what’s next.”

The shock had knocked him out of his pleasure-drugged stupor. Stiles found his voice and a tiny glimmer of his earlier sass, “Are you going to let me come?”

That earned him a condescending chuckle, “Absolutely not. However, I _was_ thinking I would fingerfuck this pretty ass open until you were sobbing, and then fuck you so full of my come that the next time you thought about letting someone else—anyone else—near it you’d remember exactly who it belongs to.”

The image turned his brain into mush, and Stiles mewled and squirmed with want. “Yes. Yes, that. Please.”

Derek’s cock was huge and hard against his ass and he hissed as it rocked between his cheeks, the head just slippery enough with pre-come to slide over his sensitive rim. 

“So hungry for it,” the wolf mocked as he teased, pressing the hard tip of his cock against Stiles’s dry hole, “I think I could make you cry just with this. Can’t wait to fuck you. Going to sink into this perfect ass so slowly, hold you there on the brink of it, make you feel every inch as it splits you wide. Get you used to being on my cock—maybe we’ll practice just letting you hold it inside. Let you sit on my lap stuffed full of cock, hands cuffed to your thighs and a gag in your mouth, while I’m working. You’d keep my cock nice and warm, wouldn’t you?”

Stiles whined and tried to rock back, but he was completely pinned, one of Derek’s knees jammed into the back of his, the fist in his hair still holding his head immobile. “Yes. Yes, I’d keep your cock warm. Hold it in my ass until it got nice and hard.”

“Good boy.” He got another rock of hips, that teasing tip pressing a little deeper, everything still too hot and dry to go any further.

“Thought you were going to finger me open? Get me all sloppy?” He tried not to sound too bossy, but he _wanted_ , dammit. He wanted so much.

“You tired of this already? You want me to stop?” Derek managed to sound so disappointed that Stiles froze. Fuck.

“No. No, please don’t stop. Just wanted to do what you said. Sounded so good. Still sounds so good. Please, sir.” He was babbling.

Derek bit the back of his shoulder, sucking a mark into the skin. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, baby, but my wolf is howling to fuck this ass so I’m going to let it slide.” He gave Stiles’s hair a rough tug. “Don’t get used to it.”

“No, sir.” Stiles shook his head as much as he could, relief making his muscles sag.

The wolf shifted, slipping one hand under a pillow to grab the lube he’d clearly left there earlier. The idea that he’d been jerking off in Stiles’s bed, stroking his cock surrounded by his scent was exhilarating, and he took deep pleasure from the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one affected by what was between them.

Derek loosened his grip on Stiles’s hair andtrailed his hands down over the broad expanse of his back, one thumb tracing the line of his spine until he was teasing his asshole. The bottle clicked and the thumb disappeared for a moment only to return covered in slick.

“Going to own this,” the voice behind him rumbled with gravel, “going to fuck it with my tongue next time. Eat you until my jaw is numb.”

Stiles had never been rimmed before, but he’d agreed that he was willing. Right then he was more than willing.

“Oh please,” he said shifting uncontrollably on the bed.

“Please what?” Derek twisted his thumb and it slipped inside him with little resistance due to his proactive prep before he’d gone to the club. “Fucking look at that, so hungry for me, sucking my fingers right in.”

“Please more, sir." Stiles begged. "Please.”

He must have begged prettily enough because suddenly there were two fingers stretching him. “Is this what you wanted?” Derek teased him, sliding in an inch and then back out again, twisting and rolling his wrist so he covered every bit of skin in slick.

“So good,” Stiles groaned, “so, so good. Oh my God, yes… right there. More, please, God your fingers are amazing, but you’re making me crazy.”

The fingers stilled in his ass and Stiles panicked for a moment that he’d pushed too hard, but Derek was simply adding more slick, the sound of his fingers loud in the room as they fucked into him wet and messy.

“I like you crazy.” The wolf dropped an open-mouthed kiss on his nape. “Like seeing you writhing, pushed so far you think you can’t take it anymore, but I know a secret. I know you can take more. You’re going to take everything I have to give, aren’t you?”

Every word was punctuated by an expert stroke over his prostate, just enough to set his nerves alight. It almost buzzed under his skin, and Stiles could imagine how it would become unbearable if it went on too long.

“I can hear your thoughts wandering,” the fingers pressed more firmly, the jolt strong enough to make him jerk, and Stiles let out a sound he would deny to the end of his days. “You need to stay with me, baby. I don't want you thinking of anything but me and my fingers. Ride the feeling.”

It reminded him of surfing, trying to keep his balance on the knife edge of pleasure. His muscles were straining against something he couldn’t control, that he couldn’t even _try_ to control. All he could do was let it carry him along.

“Color?” The pause in sensation was the only thing that pulled him back to consciousness enough to answer.

“Green.” He gulped in a breath while he could. “Sir.”

“Let me know if that changes, baby,” the order was couched so sweetly that Stiles didn’t resent it, and he nodded.

“Yes sir.”

Derek sat back, lifting his weight off Stiles’s legs and nudged his hips until he was up on his knees.

“That’s perfect,” he said, stroking a hip with his free hand, the fingers of his other still stroking his prostate incessantly, each pass varied in pressure so he couldn’t get used to the rhythm. "Look at you. Taking me so well. Sucking my fingers in."

The words washed over him, and Derek kept him there on the edge of discomfort and bliss until his brain stopped trying to quantify the feeling and just _felt_.

“That’s right,” the wolf soothed even as he pushed, “now, tell me what you want, baby.”

Stiles felt drunk on sensation, his mind was drifting but he knew one word. “Please. _Please_.”

“Please what, baby,” strong legs pushed against the sides of Stiles’s knees, shoving them together so Derek could straddle them. “You’ve got to tell me what you want or I’m just going to keep doing this all night.”

He was torn, floating on the edge, wanting to keep floating but knowing there was so much more, and he forced himself to find the words.

“Fuck me, sir,” he begged, gasping brokenly at a particularly hard jab to his prostate, “I want you to fuck me. Want to feel you. Want your come in me. Want what you said. Mark me. Make it real. Want to be yours. Want everyone to know., Alpha.” He looked back over his shoulder at the man who’d reduced him to this state, his eyes wet and mouth open, and he didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything more. “ _Please_.”

Derek groaned, laying his body along the long line of Stiles’s arched back, hands tight around his hips, buffing their cheeks together. Stiles almost cried at the feeling of emptiness as the wolf pulled his fingers away but they were replace by the blunt head of a cock at his entrance and groaned instead. “That’s right, baby. Feel that?” He rocked his cock against Stiles’s fluttering hole. “I’m going to fuck you now. Fuck your gorgeous ass. You’re going to scream for me.”

Stiles’s heart was pounding and he was yearning for the feeling of being split open, of being fucked wide, but Derek was just held his cock there against his hole, like he was taking his pulse through his ass.

He knew it was a test. He knew it, and he tried, he tried so hard to be patient, but he needed to be fucked. He needed to come. He needed Derek, dammit.

“Fuck,” he trembled under the bigger man, forcing himself to stillness, forcing himself to wait for what the Dom was willing to give, but he couldn’t stop the words. “Please. God, please. _Christ_. Let me come with your cock inside me. Please, sir. _Alpha_. I can’t… fuck, _I can’t_." He was sobbing now. "Please. Please _. Please_.”

Derek growled over him. “That’s my good boy.”

A sharp snap of hips and he was seated deeply, his cock just as huge and hot as it had looked, setting Stiles’s nerves alight. It was brutal and overwhelming and absolutely fucking _perfect._ Yes, he wanted to come, but if this was all he got, it was still more than he could have ever imagined.

“I had plans you know,” how Derek could sound so calm was beyond him, “you were going to come to me and I was going to take you out, ease you into things, let you learn to lean on me, but this,” he pistoned his hips sharply, sliding almost completely out and then burying himself to the hilt again, “this is better. You pushed your way in, and now it’s my turn.”

The wolf didn't make much noise, but there was a satisfied huff at the bottom of every stroke, a wordless _take it, take it,_ that made Stiles's cheeks burn.

“You're such a pretty bitch. I'm going to fuck you full of come every day. Make you wear a plug so it all stays inside.” Derek rutted into him, the smack of their hips echoing in the dark. Stiles felt like his breath was being knocked out of him with every stroke splitting him wider until he was gritting his teeth against the sounds leaking from his mouth.

“No, baby,” the wolf wasn’t having that, “I want to hear you. I want you loud.” He fucked in harder and Stiles couldn’t stifle a scream. “ _Fuck, yes_ , just like that.”

He was a machine, never letting up, never wavering, and Stiles thought he might’ve lost time as he floated somewhere between too much and not enough. His body, though, kept ramping up. Tightening. Suddenly, his orgasm was right there, hot and brilliant, and he knew all he had to do was let it happen.

“Yellow!” He choked out the word as the realization crashed through him, squirming against the wolf behind him. “Please, sir. Stop. Stop!”

Derek stopped; his cock was still buried deep, but the overwhelming sensation paused before it pushed him over the edge. “What’s the matter, baby? Can you tell me?”

Stiles’s arms didn’t want to hold him up; he felt like a newborn colt, all awkward limbs. There were tears on his face. “It was too much. I was…” his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, the words so hard to say, but Derek seemed to understand.

“Were you about to come, baby?” It sounded so gentle. Stiles nodded, grateful that Derek wasn’t upset with him. “Look at you.” The fingers that had been digging bruises into his hips were now soothing along his flank. “So good for me, letting me know. This is the first time, too, and you still stayed in control.”

The praise washed over him and Stiles drifted into that quiet hazy space in his brain again. “Wanted to be good for you.”

The wolf dropped kisses along his spine. “You were. You were very good for me. I think you’ve earned a reward.”

Stiles knew what he wanted as a reward, but it wasn’t his place to ask. He’d take whatever Derek wanted to give him. “If you think so, sir.”

There was no mistaking the rumble of approval from the wolf. “Look at you. So goddamned beautiful, and such a good boy for me.” He reached around and gently cupped Stiles’s aching cock, gathering the slick from the tip, and stroking lightly as he started rocking into his ass again. “You’ve already been so good, but I want you to do one more thing for me.”

“I’m still too close,” Stiles said, clawing at his composure, trying to keep his orgasm at bay, “I don’t think… I won’t be able to…”

“You’ll do what I tell you,” Derek growled, fucking into him harder, stroking him harder, and he could feel the pleasure bearing down on him like an avalanche. “And I’m telling you to come for me, baby. Come. _Now.”_

With that, he leaned in, biting into Stiles’s shoulder, and then... the world exploded. The line Stiles had been walking disappeared, replaced by a sheer cliff, and he fell.

Behind him the wolf howled, claws digging into his hips, heat pulsing as he came in a frenzy.

“ _Mine_.” The word burned between them. “My baby. My Stiles. No one else’s.”

“Yours,” Stiles agreed, shivering in the heat that poured off the body behind him. “No one else. Only yours.”

Tremors skittered through him, come pooling and cooling on the bed beneath him, and he marveled that he’d lived almost three decades before ever actually feeling this alive.

Derek gentled him with soft touches and guided him to his side, easing out of his still twitching body and gathering him in for a kiss they both wanted. When they pulled apart, they were still breathless, but calmed in a way that spoke volumes in the silence.

“You okay?” Derek’s eyes glowed, the alpha completely in control, needing to care, needing to protect, and Stiles nodded.

“Good.” He laid there quietly letting the other man pet and soothe him as their hearts slowed. “Was that okay?” He knew he sounded fragile, but he needed to know. Needed to know he had been what Derek wanted, what _his Dom_ wanted.

“You were amazing.” Derek dropped another kiss on Stiles’s lips and then pulled back, mouth quirked in a tiny smile. “For a brat.”

Stiles choked on a laugh, the lighthearted tone easing him back into his skin as he allowed himself to relax in the larger man’s embrace.

Stiles let Derek manhandle him into position as the little spoon, muscular arms warm bands around his waist. “Just rest for a minute or two, and then I’ll get you cleaned up and get you some water. Does anything hurt?”

He shook his head, a little overwhelmed by the warmth settling in his belly. The two of them were going to drive each other crazy. Hell, they’d probably be lucky not to kill each other, but, right then he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“No, sir,” he said, tilting his head back and resting on his alpha’s shoulder. “Everything’s good.”


End file.
